She dreams of Golden Hope
by ria95
Summary: "In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed- But a waking dream of life and light hath left me broken-hearted." A Dream- Edgar Allan Poe Thorin/OC. AU in some places. I own nothing but my OC and any original Story line. Please read and Review.
1. Prologue

Prologue

A sizzle and the smell of a recently-lit fire. He kindled the candle in his hands and immediately the darkness that had surrounded him, dispersed and a flickering illumination enlivened his hobbit hole. Guided by this small flame that threw dancing shadows on his earthy-brown walls, he moved toward his chest with intent and purpose. It was time. He had awoken this morning and to all intents and purposes it would have looked like it was a normal morning in Bilbo Baggins' household. He had awoken to the sun's light shining on his weathered cheeks and illuminating his silvery hair. He had awoken and he would have strained his ears to detect the sound of soft, dulcet humming and he would feel intense disappointment at perceiving the silence in his home. He would stand up with difficulty due to soreness in his back that seemed to have become a constant company to him for the past few months. He would think of his progressed age, of his senility with bitter amusement. Time had passed so quickly. Too quickly and it seemed as if it had only been yesterday when he had shakingly passed his fingers through untameable red curls and, with tears imparing his vision, had held a dainty hand that had been so cold. Colder than the air in Gollum's cave, colder than the winter that had come upon them when he had been a young, sensible man and that had taken almost everything from them. Bilbo closed his eyes as the memories came down upon him like an avalanche and the pain accompanied them smothered him. Bilbo's youth and strength had left him, but the memories had cruelly remained. The memories of the quest- of her.

Appearance-wise this morning had not been special. Bilbo Baggins had awoken and he had gone to his kitchen to cook breakfast and tea for himself and his nephew. The young hobbit lad had come in, prompted by the sweet smell of warm tea and the scent of warm bread. Uncle and nephew had sat down and enjoyed their meal and Frodo had questioned him about his adventures, for Bilbo Baggins was known for his unorthodox, daring spirit in the whole of the Shire. Bilbo Baggins, who had nothing of the conservative, burgeois manner of the Baggins folk, but had inherited his mother's Tookish streak. He was often looked down upon for his adventures, would often be described as foolhardy and admittedly slightly mad for leaving the comfort of his home to engage in pursues that were entirely galling and would make him late for dinner. Adventures, uncomfortable things that make you late for dinner, the Hobbits would say. This conservative perspective had prompted Bilbo from being regarded as the most sensible and responsible of young lads to an older man that was the topic of Hobbiton's gossip. Yet, while he was frowned upon by the adults, the hobbit infants seemed enamoured with him and his tales of bravery and courage. Tales that were so fantastical that they seemed to be fairy tales, but that according to the teller had indeed occured. Tales of glorious heros, of beatiful princesses, of the most fierce and breath-taking battles. Descriptions of the most magnificent locations. Stories that would prompt the young, impressionable Hobbit children to reenact the tales in the surrounding woods, shielded from their parent's disapproving eyes.

No, this morning had nothing out of the ordinary. He would sit with Frodo at breakfast and the kitchen would be brightly illuminated by the sun's light, that had filtered through the pane of the windows and the smell of freshly sprouting grass and roasted sausages would intersperse and fill the alcove, blanketing itself around Bilbo and Frodo. The idyllic quietude of the outside would infiltrate Bag End's kitchen, but it would also be accompanied by the sound of Bilbo relaying one of his many tales to Frodo and indulging the young lad's curiosity. He had told him all his adventures. All but one, for this one was too painful to relive.

It would seem to be a day as others. Yet, apperances were so deceiving, because when Bilbo Baggins had awoken this morning, when he had opened his eyes for the first time and his weary pupils had been hit with the early morning sun, an unprecented determination and euphoria had gripped him. Had caused him to recover some of his strength that had inhabited him during his youth. Had caused him to rise much quicker, propelled by this urge and certainty that it was now time. And it was this very same urge, that now had him moving through the unlit, winding corridors of Bag End, his only companion being the candle, that he held onto like a sacred beacon and the eary silence. His nephew had long ago retired and were Frodo to awaken, he would be quite disconcerted by the fact that his elderly uncle was still wandering the halls of their hobbit hole, like an unholy spirit. Like a ghost, that had not managed to find its peace, but seemed possessed. Possessed by the need to complete the task that had been trust upon it, in hopes of achieving liberation.

Bilbo quietly, but resolutely limped toward his chest and opened it. The first thing he saw was his sword, the sword he had acquired during his first adventure, during the quest that he both cherished and cursed, for he had gained so much, yet felt that the price he had to pay had been too high indeed. That what he had lost had been too great and what had acquired had been too slim in comparison. But he still felt the siren call of the sheathed blade, that he had kept in this chest and locked away. That had been a prisoner and was now urging Bilbo for its freedom. Bilbo withdrew his hand that had been unconsciously moving toward the blade and he reminded himself of what his task now was. He picked up his leathered case, that contained his parchment and moved toward his study. Kindled by the flickering light of the candle, he began to write and he wrote the whole night through. He wrote in hopes that he would be able to ensnare the painful memories that had tormented him for six decades now. Hoping that he would be able to trap his bane between the lines of his neat caligraphy, was able to imprison him behind the beige bars of the parchment. He wrote the story of his first adventure, the quest where he had helped the company of Thorin Oakenshield reclaim their lost home.

_Dear Frodo, _

_you asked me once if I had told you all there was to know of my… adventures. And while I can honestly say that I have told you the truth… I may not have told you all of it. I am old now Frodo, I am not the same Hobbit I once was. _

He stopped writing for a second as the pain of his realization once more hit him. He looked at the portrait that he had cast aside bitterly, when he had opened his case. The portrait that showed him as a young lad, the portrait that had been painted of him just before he had gone to his coming-of-age feast. The feast that had celebrated the completion of his thirty-third year on Middle Earth. It had been a long time ago, and he could not recall the event clearly. He could recall details, like firey-red hair swirling in the air, as he danced with her. Her delighted laughter at his antics and the beaming nature of her smile. How she had awoken him early that morning by jumping on his bed and then when he had been lucid and prepared to admonish her, she had embraced him so lovingly, that his indignation had dissipated and transformed to indulgent amusement. He furrowed his grey brows and pushed the portrait aside. He needed to do this. He owed it to her, he owed it to himself.

_I think it is time for you to know what really happened. It began long ago. In a land far away to the east, the like of which you will not find in the world today. There was the city of Dale, its markets known far and wide, full of the bounties of fine and veil, peaceful and prosperous. For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom of Middle Earth: Erebor. Stronghold of Thror: King under the Mountain. Mightiest of the dwarf lords. Thror ruled with utter sureity, never doubting his house would endure, for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson. _

Bilbo closed his eyes as the memories of Thorin and Erebor asailed him. Thorin with his majestic and invulnerable demeanour. Thorin that had been his leader and that Bilbo had grown loyal to. But it was not the memory of Thorin the king under the mountain that pained him. No it was the memory of Thorin, his leader, dare he say his friend? The memory of Thorin, the man she had… He shook his head, as if wanting to shake away his rumifications. He thought of Erebor, the vast fortress he could remember. The impenetrable stronghold, that had been so wealthy, that he upon his viewing had understood why the dwarves had longed to return and would have lost their lives for it. He could still remeber the luxurious constructions, the unending treasure, how the sophisticated and majestic aura it had exuded, had undermined the fact that this castle was buried deep within the mountain with no sunlight, no connection to the outside world and a lifeless, ominous atmosphere that as his stay progressed had begun to smother him, leading him to the conclusion that only Thorin's treasures could survive the dark and damp halls. He picked up his pen again and continued:

_Ah Frodo, Erebor! Built deep within the mountain itself, the beauty of this fortress-city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rocks and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. The skill of the dwarves was unequal, fashioning things of great beauty, out of diamond, emerald, ruby, and saphire. Ever they go deeper, down into the dark. And that is where they found it. The heart of the mountain: The Arkenstone. Thror named it the king's jewel and he took it as a sign, a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him, even the great elven king Thandruil. But the years of peace and plenty were not to last. Slowly the days turned sour and the watchful nights closed in. Thror's love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him. It was a sickness of the mind, and where sickness thrives bad things will follow. _

_The first they heard was a noise like a hurricane, coming down from the north. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind. He was a firedrake from the north. Smaug had come! Such want and death were dealt on that day, for the city of men was nothing to Smaug. His eye was set on another price. For dragons covet gold with a dark and fierce desire. Erebor was lost, for a dragon will guard his plunder for as long as he lives. Thandruil would not risk the life of his kin against the wrath of the dragon. No help came from the elves that day, or any day since. Robbed of their home, the dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness. A once-mighty people brought low. The young dwarf prince took work, where he could find it, labouring in the villages of men. But always he remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon, trees like torches blazing bright, he had seen dragon fire in the sky and a city turned to ash. And he never forgave and he never forgot. _


	2. Book One: Auguries of Love

**Book 1: In a hole in the ground there lived two hobbits.**

Chapter 1

_"Too see a World in a Grain of Sand and a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand and Eternity in an hour." Auguries of Innocence- William Blake_

The sun was shining on her long, golden-blonde hair and she could distinctly hear the dulcet symphony of the melody of the early morning larks coupled with the discreet fluttering of butterfly wings, which in this part of Middle Earth were so beautiful and creatively composed. Not even in her homeland had she seen the extraordinary design on butterfly wings that she had first glimpsed in the Shire and that had become one of her favourite aspects about the place. She had been used to monochrome wings that were vibrant of colour, but other than that were quite common and contrasted with the otherworldly beauty of her childhood home. The butterflies there were either midnight blue, or rose red, and sometimes even daffodil yellow. When she had arrived in the Shire she had been enchanted by the elaborate design she had seen on the wings of the butterflies. The ostentatious adornment they flew with. Here the butterflies were not monochrome, but their wings were adorned with the most unusual patterns. Contrasted with the pine green background, you could see swirls of rich brown that reminded her of the colour of her husbands eyes. She looked at her surroundings and took no note of the beauty of this early spring morning. The sun was already shining bright in the sky and was illuminating the rolling meadows, which she rode past, in such a way that the soft green grass and the healthy, sprouting blossoms seemed to glow. She took no note of the sweet smell of spring flowers and the scent of hearty cooked food, the latter which seemed to grow in intensity as she approached her destination. She took no note of this smell, which she had always found comforting, which she had come to associate with home, that wafted through the warm air and encompassed her. She had always found joy in riding this way, because when she had done so firstly she had been accompanied by the expectation of being reunited with her love and then when she had finally been eternally bound to him, they would ride side by side to visit his sister and her dearest friend. Both of them would then be giddy in excitement, anticipating the joy of their visit, the warm reception of his sister and the delightful hours of divertment and pleasant conversation in the garden. Together they would then return to their own home and would eagerly await their next visit, while spending their time together and blissfully joyful. The journey she had undertaken had always been a source of joy to her and she would always perceive the beauty of the Shire and take delight in it.

Yet she did not do so now. Elauriel rode past the rolling downs, she rode past the landscape, which she had always found so beautiful in ist simplicity, but she kept her head down and took no note of it. She did not take note of the natural beauty, which she passed by and did not take her usual infantile delight in it. Then again she had not taken delight in many things, since… She closed her eyes and she did not dare to take the thought any further, because the pain and longing which the thoughts evoked cut through the haze of grief and agony that had blanketed her and which seemed to have become a part of her, as vital as an organ, as vital as he had been. While she had been growing up, everyone had commented on how beautiful Elauriel was. Beauty was not an uncommon thing in the elvish culture, indeed all members of their race had an appearance so handsome that it was almost painful to behold. With her long, flowing blonde hair and her silvery, shining grey eyes, Elauriel's features had not been uncommonly beautiful. Yet, what caused others to comment on her appearance was her constant happiness, which served to light up her features like a glorious beacon. Her bright smile that was almost a siren call to the male elves of Rivendell, the way her entire face was smilling, when her lips twisted into a grin, like how her eyes would crinkle at the sides and a small dimple would appear on her right cheek. In her century on this earth, Elauriel had always been described as joyful and content. Yet as she rode toward Bag End on this early morning, Elauriel could be described as anything but happy. The elvish woman was positively miserable and she did not shine like a bright star, as her friends in Rivendell had so often claimed. She seemed drab, her shiny blonde hair did not reflect the sun's light, but seemed dim in appearance, her eyes had lost that glim of excitement, which they had always sported and now the grey seemed ashen in appearance. And that is how she felt, she felt plain, and worst of all she did not feel the despair that seemed to have been ingrained in her since that fateful day, when she had excitedly exited the house at the sound of horse hooves, anticipating her husband's arrival, only to find that it was not him, but a man with a face as grim as death and an unruly appearance. She had begged for the despair, that had risen in her at the message that grim, bearded man had brought and which had tormented her for so long, to end and when it had, she had longed for it to return, because that perilous feeling had been like a remainder that she lived, but now she only felt numb and that foggy blanket that had descened upon her and dulled her perception and feeling was coupled with an excrutiation, sharp pain in her chest. Now that the despair had subsided, it felt like she no longer was living. And indeed she had given up. She had given up on everything, when her husband had brutally and cruelly been ripped from her.

Elauriel was shaked out of her self-pity by the feeling of a small, warm body wriggling in front of her, trying to become more comfortable on the horse that transported her. She looked down and the first thing she saw was a mass of untameable, impossibly vibrant red curls, that belonged to her child. She sighed silently and gathered her daughters curls together and bound them carefully, intent on not waking her young girl. And as she regarded her daughter's red hair, she once agin felt like a sharp knife had been twisted in her gut. This unwordly colour of red, that gleamed so brightly in the sun that it was almost blinding in its beauty reminded her of her husband's hair. His hair had been of the same colour and it had been one of the first things that had amazed Elauriel. One of the things that had fascinated her about him. She closed her eyes and tenderly ran her thin fingers through her daughter's soft curls and she remembered the day she had first met Benji Took.

* * *

She had been riding further away from Rivendell then she had ever gone. She had been upset at her father and had been trying to escape the reality that he would no longer tolerate her rejecting all the suitors that he had found suitable. He would no longer accept her misgivings and he had told her that she was too wild, that she did not comport herself like a lady of her standing should. He was determined to force Elauriel into a loveless marriage and he was willing to accept her misery in an eternity-long, unhappy marriage for the sake of his high-standing in elvish society. When her father had informed her of his impatience and had insisted on her speedy betrothal, Elauriel had felt like one of those princesses, who were given to a barbaric, cruel, avaricious king and who suffered silently. She had felt betrayed by her father, who had always indulged her in her infancy, but whose patience with her was now over. So she had saddled her horse and she had ridden out of Rivendell and for the past day she had been wandering aimlessly on her trusty stead. She knew that she was bound to return to Rivendell, there was nowhere else she could go, but she still continued riding further and further away from her childhood home and deeper and deeper into the forest she was now in, with its dense growth and its almost ominous appearance. She could sense her horse's exhaustion and decided to rest herself, since she too felt weary. So she had dismounted her horse and had sat upon a nearby log of a fallen tree and had stared off into the distance, pondering the unjoyful fate, which awaited her when she returned to her homeland. She had been ripped from her thoughts, when she heard a branch breaking beneath the foot of a person. The sharp sound had caused her to become alarmed and she had whirled around to face the certain menace, which now approached her, no doubt with nefarious intentions. She had been expecting a bandit, one of the members of the race of men, who pried on the riches and innocence of helpless young women as her. Perhaps it was an orc and as she remembered her father's description of the vile creatures, a shiver coursed down her spine. She did not want the distorted, foul visage of an orc to be the last thing she viewed before she died.

But what she saw when she turned around was not what she had expected. She did not see the leering, lustful sneer of an emaciated forest bandit, she did not see the scarred, marmour-like skin of an orc and its malicious, yellow-toothed grin. She saw a small, chubby man, whose surprise at what he saw reflected hers, if his startled facial expression was anything to go by. She scrutinized the man before her, he was much shorter than she was and his plump and stocky stature lead her to believe that he could not be of the race of men. Her suspicion was confirmed, when she saw his large, shoeless, hairy feet. Yet it was his face that had her fascinated for he had such a youthful and innocent appearance that she would have assumed him to be a child, where it not for the wisdom in his eyes and the smoking pipe he held clutched in his hands. She had been so engrossed by her study of him that she had forgotten the hazardous situation she was in, but her worry would have been wasted, because as she studied his warm, oaken-brown eyes she could detect nothing, but kindness and anemity within them. She was equally awe-struck when she saw the mass of red curls on his head. She had never seen such a vibrant shade of red, which seemed to gleam, eventhough the dense shrubbery of the forest only allowed minimal sunlight to shine upon them. „You're an elf." He said and he almost seemed in awe.

The spell their intense scrutiny had weaved upon them was broken and despite not feeling enimosity radiating oft he small man, Elauriel once more became aware of her situation and she quickly stood and made to move to her horse. Her movement had been so abrupt and quick, that she heard the man behind her scramble and once he had recovered his composure he said warmly: „You needn't worry for your safety. We hobbits are a peaceful folk. I won't hurt you, miss. I'll leave if you want me to." Elauriel felt herself grow warm at his tone and his words and disregarding any previous alarm she had felt, she turned to him and smiled at him beatifically. She saw his eyes widen, almost theatrically, at the tender look she was bestowing him and once more she felt affection for the small creature rise in her. She returned to the log she had been sitting on and fixed the little man with an expectant look in her eyes, that prompted him to join her. He approached her guardingly, as if she was a skittish animal, that he feared to frighten with any abrupt and hasty movement. When he reached the log and sat, they simply studied each other for a long time. She had heard about Hobbits or Halflings before, but she had never seen one and so she looked at the man before her with childlike curiosity and amazement. Now that he was closer, she could detect the lived wisdom in his eyes, which only served to further endear this man to her. She asked him for his name and questioned him about the colour of his hair. Amused at her amazement with his hair, he told her that his name was Benji Took and that he did not know from where he had gotten his hair from, as none of his relatives possessed the same shade but that he lived with it nonetheless.

As their conversation progressed they became more and more comfortable with each other and while Benji told her of his life in the Shire, she told him of the reason she had left Rivendell. He had seemed concerned for her and had offered her to stay with him and his sister in her husband's hobbit hole. She had felt tempted and slightly euphoric at the offer, wishing to spend more time with this Hobbit that interested her for reasons yet unbeknowst to her, but she did not wish to impose and made to decline his offer, justifying her rejection by her belief that she would only be a bother. He had laughed at her then and the deep, joyful sound of his laughter had caused her heart to beat faster and her cheeks to grow warm. Her breathing hitched when he put his warm hand upon hers and had looked her in the eyes and sincerely said: „You would never be a bother Elauriel. Not to my sister and most certainly not to me. We are both Tooks and as a result we are almost indecently adventurous, my sister would never forgive me if I did not introduce her to the only elf she will most likely ever see. Please, come with me." He had looked so sincere and beseeching, that Elauriel could not have refused him even if she wanted to. This was the moment she had fallen in love with Benji Took, though she would only realize that later.

* * *

The next years of her life was the most joyful she could remember. As predicted by Benji, she was warmly received by his sister Belladonna Took and even by her more conservative husband Bungo Baggins, who would have accepted anyone in his house, if his beloved wife wished for it. She befriended Belladonna and the two were like sisters. Elauriel having never had any siblings welcomed the companionship Belladonna provided her and the two grew almost inseperable. Though she did spend the majority of her time with Benji and the two of them would often ride out and more often than not they would go on adventures, riding far past Bree and into the world ahead. Each day Elauriel spent with Benji she grew to love him more and more. Benji experienced the same feelings as Elauriel and eventually he had gathered his courage and daring like a true Took, he had asked her to marry him. Their joy had been immense to find that their feelings were reciprocated and in the following spring Elauriel and Benji Took were married. The wedding was a subdued affair in Bag End's garden, which Elauriel had always adored due to the vast, healthy flora which could be found there. The flowers seemed to bloom even more happily under the tender care of Belladonna Took. So the hobbit and the elf were married surrounded by a sea of differently coloured petals and with only Belladonna, Bungo and their newborn son, Bilbo as witnesses of the event. The newly weds did not stay at Bag End, as Benji had soon procured a small cottage in the woods surrounding Bree. Benji had found work there, assisting the black smith, but he would always eagerly await the end of his working day so that he could return to his beautiful, beloved wife in their small cottage, that she had made home. Elauriel had loved the cottage, when Benji had first shown her it. It was made of light-brown wood and was located in the middle of a vast meadow, with fertile soil, so that similarly to Belladonna she could set up an idyllic garden. When her husband was away she would spend most of her time tending diligently to the vibrantly coloured petals, which seemed to thrive beneath her dedicated hands. Yet Benji and her would not be completely content remaining complacent at home for extended amounts of time. His Tookish streak was much too pronounced to remain at home for too long and she too was too wild and adventure-seeking to not go in the search of excitement. They spent several years in wedded bliss and their love did not fade with time, but became stronger and stronger.

Their joy at getting married almost paled in comparison at their happiness when they found out that Elauriel was awaiting a child, a product of their love. They had become more complacent and serene then, the excitement and anticipation in awaiting their offspring having replaced the thrill of adventure. In this time intervall, you would often find the couple sitting in Elauriel's garden, surrounded by sky-blue and purple, fragrant blossoms with both caressing Elauriel's growing belly, where their child, their joy was growing. Elauriel could clearly remember the night that her daughter had been born. The birth had been exhausting, but her weariness had dissipated, when she had held her little girl in her arms and had gazed upon her sleeping face and found her the most beautiful thing she had gazed upon. She had been so amazed at her daughter and had been so absorbed in her scrutiny of the little girl, that she had only perceived her approaching husband, when she had felt the bed she was lying upon dip down, due to his added weight and felt his calloused hands tenderly carresing her arms. She had looked up at him and smiled brightly seeing that the amazement and love she felt for her daughter was reflected in her husband's deep brown eyes and Benji, seeing his wife smiling at him lovingly and proudly, had kissed her forehead and with pride and gratefulness drenching his words he had said: „She is perfect." Elauriel had nodded her head and she knew that her child would grow up to be extraordinary. She would be beautiful and kind. As she sat with her little girl in her arms and could feel her warm body close to hers and she felt Benji's comforting presence beside her, her heart soared with love and joy and she whispered a blessing over her child: „You, my beautiful little girl, shall find the most beautiful and all-consuming love in this world. You shall love and be loved like no other." They had named her Laurel Arya Took and she had been the light of her parents' life. But the joy of this small family would not last for long.

* * *

Elauriel could remember every single word of the blessing that she had uttered over her child's head lovingly during Laurel's first hours in the world. She looked down at her sleeping daughter and she felt guilt coarse through her at the memory. She had thought it was a blessing. She had thought that by uttering those words, she would ensure her daughter's happiness, but now she knew that truly what she had done was to curse her daughter. She had ensured her a lifetime of pain with her unmeditated words. Foolishly, Elauriel had thought that love was the most joyful thing one could bestow on an individual, the greatest gift one could receive, but now she realized that love only brought pain and this ache was only made unbearable by contrasting it with the memories of utter bliss in her marriage. But it had not been enough. It would never be enough. A few years after Laurel's birth, Benji had become restless once more. His Tookish Streak had propelled him to leave with a few tradesmen in search of an adventure. Elauriel would have gone with him, but she had felt compelled to remain behind and care for Laurel. The morning of his departure she had tearfully bid him goodbye and he had been tenderly amused at her tears and he had told her that he would return to her and their daughter soon. Elauriel could now see that her tears had been caused by premonition, by her growing knowledge that something would happen to the love of her life. As he had ridden away, his shoulders stiff in excitement on his trotting pony, Elauriel had stood almost paralyzed by fear, but she had resisted calling out and begging her husband to return. She had attributed her ill-feeling to the fact that this would be the first time that she and her spouse would be separated for an extended time intervall. Now she knew better and she cursed herself.

Benji had been away for three month and she had eagerly anticipated his return. Laurel was a consolation and she prevented Elauriel from feeling utterly alone and isolated. She would enjoy sitting in her garden and watching her beautiful, young girl chasing after butterflies and she would enjoy brushing Laurel's wild, red curls that she had inherited from her father and adorning them with yellow buttercups, which looked immensely handsome in her child's hair. Yet, she missed her husband and she felt shame at the knowledge that her child's company was not enough for her. So she eagerly awaited her husband's return, she would spend hours gazing out the window, up the road, longing to see her husband's stocky, plump form appear in the distance. When she was in the garden with Laurel, she would listen intently to the sound of approaching horse hooves. She was on edge anticipating his arrival and then one morning, while Laurel was lying in the grass and her delicate features were illuminated by the sun, Elauriel heard the long-awaited sound of horse hooves and she ran ecstatically to receive her husband. Yet, like her first meeting with Benji, the image that met her was not what she had expected. Before her stood one of her husband's travelling companions. He looked grim and worn and she had longed for her husband's soft and youtful face to appear before her. He had proceeded to tell her that Benji had been fatally wounded during a bandit's raid on their camp and that he would not return. At the man's confession, Elauriel had felt her heart being torn out of her body and that is when the darkness of grief had descended upon her. She could not remember the first few days after the discovery, she could recall only recall fragments of this time period. How she had laid on her bed in a catatonic state and how she had disregarded her child's soft, beseeching and worried voice, as she called for her mother on the other side of the locked door. She could remember how relief had lit up Laurel's features, when she had finally left the room, but she had disregarded her daughter. Now that Benji was dead and she was in mourning, she no longer felt love for her daughter, but only cold indifference. Truly she felt indifferent about everything and she remembered spending the days sitting infront of her window, hoping that it had only been a cruel dream and that her husband's familiar form would appear in the distance and he would be illuminated by the sun behind him, having the illusion of a halo around him. But he never came back and eventually cruel reality had dawned on Elauriel and that is when she had lost the will to live.

Pain at her behaviour only rose at the fact of how Laurel had suffered at her indifference. Elauriel had completely disregarded her child for the past two summers, selfishly only focusing on her own pain. Yesterday she had first gazed at her child properly for the first time, since she had gotten the news that her beloved husband had died. And what she had seen had shook her. Laurel had grown. Her hair now cascaded down her back in sea of savage, rose red curls and her features were now more delicate, and her skin the colour of creamy snow and a texture that reminded her of peaches and cream. She had grown up, and though she was still a little girl she seemed so different to Elauriel, like she was seeing her daughter for the first time. She had seen her daughter sitting on the grass, her sky-blue eyes trained at the sky above and Elauriel had been surprised at seeing how beautiful her daughter already was. But more disconcerted she had been at the sadness she had seen in her child's eyes. The listlessness that Laurel had no doubt adopted from her mother. And that is when she realized the pain that she was causing her daughter and once more she felt a sharp stab of pain and guilt had coursed through her like the coldest water in Middle Earth. But Elauriel was too far gone, she was fading and nothing could bring her back. So that is how she decided to saddle her horse and ride toward Bag End, the place where her happiness had started and where she hoped Laurel would find equal joy.

* * *

She was sitting before Belladonna Took and the buxom, motherly woman was fixing her with an intent, questioning gaze. Elauriel did not dare to meet it, because she knew that once she had told Belladonna the reason of her visit and had confessed her behaviour caused by her grief, the care and concern in the woman's deep brown eyes, that were so reminiscent of Benji's that it pained Elauriel, would turn to disappointment. She did not dare to meet the gaze of this woman who, before grief and misery had blanketed her, she had considered her dearest friend, for fear of what she would find. She looked down at her hand and she again wondered at the ashen quality of her skin. She had not cared for her appearance in the past few years, she had not minded what she looked like, but when Belladonna had come out of Bag End and her joyous, motherly smile had fallen upon gazing at Elauriel, she had realized how weathered and broken down she must appear. The buxom, warm hobbit woman had adopted a motherly air and after greeting her and Laurel warmly she had ushered them into Bag End, where now only her and her son Bilbo lived, after Bungo's death three summers ago. She had gazed upon Belladonna and she had been surprised that the hobbit woman still looked similar to the way she had last seen her look. She did not seem wrecked by her grief for her dead husband. No, Belladonna Took was healthy and prosperous as ever and it again caused Elauriel shame at her weakness and trepidation to look at her friend. Belladonna was perceptive to a fault and she had gathered that Elauriel wished to talk with her in private, so she had prompted her son Bilbo, who was only a decade older than Laurel to show her his maps. The youthful, plump hobbit lad had seemed amazed at Laurel and he had enthusiastically, yet slightly timidly fulfilled his mother's demand and had led the trepidated red-haired girl by the hand deeper into the hobbit hole. Elauriel had not looked at her, even when she had felt the little girl's gaze on her like the warmth of the sun that had been on her skin during the ride.

She felt Belladonna's warm hands encompassing her own cold ones and she raised her gaze, so that she was staring at the woman's lips, but not at her eyes. Not at those Tookish eyes full of mischief, that had always gazed upon her in kindness, but would now become ugly with disappointment. Through her haze she heard the woman's warm, smoky voice: „What's wrong, my dear?" Elauriel closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, and then set off into a confession: „I am dying, Bella. I have been fading since Benji died and I am tired of living, living without him, but with this pain as his replacement. I am dying." „But what about Laurel? You can't leave her. You need to be strong, Ela. I know you loved Benji, but it would have pained him to see you like this. It would pained him if you would have left his daughter." She felt tears well up, but she pursed her mouth and urged them down. She would not cry, Belladonna already thought her too weak as it was. „I have lost the will to live and nothing will stop me from fading, Bella. I rue leaving Laurel, but I am just so tired. For the sake of your brother and our friendship, I would ask you to take her in and care for her. You shall do better raising her, than I ever would have." She saw the corner's of Belladonna's lips turn down in sadness. For a long moment neither said anything, but then Belladonna's grip on her hand tightened slightly in an appeasing gesture and her voice broke the silence: „I do not condone you leaving the girl, but I shall take her in and care for her as if she was my own." Due to her words and the silent comfort, the woman exuded, Elauriel allowed the tears that had been flwoing in her eyes to fall and she cried silently and brokenly in Belladonna's kitchen. She cried for the grief she'd had to endure, she cried for the fate that had befallen her husband and she cried for her cruelty toward her child. But most of all she cried out of relief.

She had mounted her horse and she was riding away from Bag End, when suddenly she heard the frantic discord of soft footsteps running. She closed her eyes, as she realized who was responsible for this frantic symphony. She had hoped to leave before Laurel could see her, she had hoped that her little girl would be so engrossed in her dealings with her cousin and new friend that she could have left undetected and spared them the pain of farewell. But Elauriel did not ride back, she feared that seeing her child's distressed demeanour and melancholy would cause her grief to intensify and would kill her instantenously. So she rode on and she did not turn around. She did not turn around, when she heard the soft voice of her daughter calling out to her. She did not turn around, when she heard Belladonna gather the little girl in her motherly embrace to stop her from running after Elauriel. She did not turn around, when she heard her child's voice rise with distress and cry: „Let me go Aunt Bella, mommy is leaving. I have to go with her." She did not stop when she heard her child's voice drenched with pain and agony at her abandonment calling out to her: „Mommy! Please, mommy, don't leave! I promise I'll behave. Don't go, mommy, please!" She did not turn around and simply rode away from Laurel and toward death. Away from her child and closer to her husband's waiting arms.


	3. Rise

Chapter 2

„_Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise." Still I rise- Maya Angelou_

Belladonna Took had her pointy ears trained on the dark wood of the door and she intently listened in hopes of detecting any noise. But she was to be disappointed, because all she was met with was silence. Ominous, eery silence that left her feeling incredibly worried and desolate. It should not have surprised Belladonna, she should not have been disheartened, because this had become almost a routine, she should have anticipated that while standing outside of Laurel's room, listening at the door for any signs of life from the girl would have again proved without bounty as it had the previous two months, since Elauriel had arrived at Bag End and shortly after had left the hobbit hole, leaving behind her young daughter. Abandoning the young girl, that had been in distress when she had seen her mother riding off, undetered by her frantic pleas. The girl had cried desparately and she had called for her mother, that had only had indifference to spare for her in favour of her own grief. She had cried for hours on end, like a young child missing their mother's warm embrace would have and Belladonna had tried to motherly tend to her, and for a short moment she had been relieved, when the girl had stopped crying. She had thought that the motherly affection she was steadfastly determined to show the girl had consoled the little red-haired infant.

But soon a new gnawing worry had gripped the warm heart of Belladonna Took, when the girl had become almost catatonic. When the girl had become unresponsive to her and Bilbo and had proceeded to remain in her room, like she had locked herself away in a personal, comforting prison. Like she had retreated like a beautiful butterfly back into her cockoon. And she was. The girl was truly lovely, even at such a young age and Belladonna could see that she would grow up to be a stunning young woman, but she was so sad. When Belladonna had entered the room this morning to bring her a cup of tea and some breakfast she had gazed upon the girl, that was lying inanimately on her bed and she had seen the mournful look in her sky-blue eyes and her sadness had broken Belladonna's heart. Her catatonic melancholy caused her immense grief and worry and more often than not Belladonna would find herself awake during the late hours of night, in fear that the girl would fade just like her mother had. But she was appeased, because despite her sadness the girl still seemed alive. She did not have the ashen and deathly palor that she had seen in Elauriel during their last meeting. Despite the heavy grief she could see in the girl's eyes, she also saw a gleam of life, like her body had still not given up and she hoped that she would not. That she would be able to recover from the death of her mother before she reached a point of no-return. She would never be able to forgive herself if the girl died of a broken heart under her care. She would forever feel guilt at having failed her brother and her dear friend, eventhough at the moment she could only spare resentment toward the elvish woman. Resentment that she had left her daughter and had caused the little girl so much pain.

But perhaps it was for the best. Elauriel would never have recovered from her grief at Benji's death and she would have proceeded to treat the girl coldly. At least, Laurel was still young and still had a good portion of infancy before her. If she was shown loving care, perhaps her infancy would not be marked by her mother's self-destructive mourning. Belladonna was intent on showing the young half-elf all the kindness her heart could muster and she was obstinately decided to love the girl as her own. And she had already started, she already saw Laurel as part of her family, as a child of her own that she would care for with dedication. And with this intent, she would not allow Laurel to fade. But she did not know how she would get the little girl's spirit back. She had not risen from her bed and she lay like a lifeless doll on the matress with a far away look in her eyes. The girl had barely eaten and at seeing her self-destructive behaviour, Belladonna's heart constricted painfully.

She was shaken out of her thoughts by the soft voice of her son: „Mother, how is he?" Belladonna righted herself and flattened her brown skirt and white apron with her pudgy hands. She tried to ban the saddened and worried look she no doubt had in her eyes and with a forced, motherly smile she turned around and looked at Bilbo's worried face. She felt affection for her son rise within her and she sympathized with his unhappiness at seeing his cousin's sadness. She knew that her son had taken an instant liking to his red-haired kin, she had seen the slight look of amazement in her son's demeanour, when he had regarded her delicate features and she had sensed her son's urge to befriend the girl. She knew that Bilbo was pained at her catatonic indifference to him. He had tried to cheer her up during her first week in Bag End. He had paid special attentions to her and had shown her his books filled with the most adventurous tales and had shown her his skillfully drawn pieces. But the girl had not responded to the interactions, which Bilbo had tried to almost thrust upon her. Seeing that the boy became increasingly offended and hurt by her indifference, Belladonna had taken her son aside and had told him that he would need to let Laurel be for a short amount of time. That the girl was tired and that she needed to rest, before they could play together. Her son had proved an immense amount of maturity, when he had complied to her wishes, but the increased distance between Laurel and Bilbo had not stopped her son from worrying about his cousin's mourning. She looked at her son's wide blue eyes, and his furrowed brows that conveyed his uneasiness and she smiled at him, as if she too wasn't sick with fear at the fate of the little girl that had already endeared herself to the pair of them. „She is fine, my dear. She is still tired and needs to rest. She shall be up and about soon.", she said with a thick voice and she knew that she was not convincing her son, who was looking sceptically at the door behind her. She moved toward her son and his gaze was drawn to her, as he looked up at her through his thick, golden lashes. She crouched down, so she was eye-to-eye with her little boy and she passed a nurturing hand through his golden curls. He smiled at her unsurely and she led him off into the kitchen, where she would attempt to console him with some late afternoon tea. At her son's tight grip on her hands, she knew he was trying to believe the words that Belladonna had uttered in response to his question. She also hoped fervently, willing the words to prove true.

* * *

With a beatific smile, she studied her son as he eagerly bit into the pastry that she had baked this morning. Bilbo indulged in the freshly baked treat and he had a rim of dark-brown chocolate around his mouth and he was holding onto his cup of tea resolutely, like he was holding onto a precious treasure. She felt joy at seeing her son's carefreeness and delight at the meal. He greedily drank down the light brown liquid and then after having eaten his third chocolate bun, he leaned back contently and rubbed his belly through his beige waistcoat. Belladonna felt amusement rise within her at the antics of her son. It reminded her of her late husband Bungo. After his death, it had pained her to think of the man she had loved. The man, who had been a constant, faithful companion to her for five decades. She had been desolate after the passing of her husband and she had felt heartsick, that her love had left her behind. But she'd had Bilbo and he had soothed the pain she had felt at Bungo's death. Her son had suffered at his father's death. He had always admired his wise, kind father and the two oft hem had bonded over their shared skill at drawing and Belladonna knew that Bilbo still longed for the evenings father and son sat infront of the fireplace and Bungo would read one of Bilbo's favourite tales of adventure to him. She knew that the death of his father had deeply wounded Bilbo, but together mother and son had managed to recover from their grief at this tragedy and now as Belladonna remembered her husband, she did not feel the acute stab of pain in her heart that she had felt shortly after his death. No, now she felt fondness and longing for the conservative Baggins, that had loved her despite her daring and unruly spirit and whom she had equally loved with all her heart, despite his more complacent and uptight behaviour. She remembered with fondness the first time they had met in the solstice festival, when they had both been hobbits in their tweens and he had asked her to dance. She had been surprised that this handsome young lad had wanted her company, especially as she knew that he was a Baggins of Bag End and thus due to his disciplined upbringing was bound to look down upon her for her unorthodox, Tookish streak. What a great shock it had been to all, when Belladonna and Bungo had fallen in love. What a great shock it had been, when they had gotten married and had lived together happily in wedded bliss. Of course they'd had arguments, their upbringing had been far too different, but they still had still loved each other and held onto the wish of spending their lives together. They'd had to compromise of course. After Bilbo's birth, Belladonna had become more complacent and had urged down her Tookish streak. She no longer went on adventures with her brother. She no longer saddled her pony, which she had long sold off to a farmer so that she could buy a new stove. But she could also recognize that her husband had been quite accepting of her wild spirit, especially when she thought of the stiff-nosed women, that the previous generations of Baggins men had wed. She prided herself thinking that perhaps she had passed some of her love for adventure to Bungo, especially when she saw how indulgent he was, when Bilbo had started to show the same inclination as her and had become fascinated with tales of adventures and had spent his time in the forest searching for elves, or reenacting the tales his father relayed to him the previous night.

As she thought of her husband and the time they had spent together as a family, she felt a yearning that she knew would accompany her until the day she died and was reunited with Bungo. She missed him, but she was at peace with his death. She had never felt the excrutiating and destructive pain that she had seen Elauriel suffer from after her Benji had died. Not for the first time, she questioned if perhaps elves did not feel emotions more acutely than other races. She had questioned Elauriel once how love was for elves and the blonde woman had indulgingly explained to her, that elves only loved once in their immortal lives and that they love so all-consumingly and deeply and that the loss of a loved one could often cause such a devastating pain, that many faded from grief. She had been surprised at this revelation and had compared this to the perception of love of other races. She knew that Hobbits and men were capable to fall in love more than once in their lifetime and that widowed individuals often remarried, if they fell in love another time. She had heard from some acquaintances in Bree, that dwarves' love was similar to elves. They also loved only one person in their lifetime, but the death of their love had never caused them to die, as far as she knew.

Perhaps elves loved so deeply, because they were bound to spend an eternity on Middle Earth and they would never age and die from old age. Perhaps they felt so acutely, because after having spent so much time on earth, their lives were bound to become monotonous and so when they fell in love the excitement and thrill was so intoxicating and invigorating in its novelty, that the elves would hold onto this feeling and would develop an all-consuming love and then at having lost this source of delight, they would fade not having the will to go on in this world without their love by their side. She remembered the intensity of Elauriel's feelings for Benji. How early in their acquaintance the blonde elf had looked upon her brother and Belladonna had been able to distinctly make out the affection in the girl's silvery grey eyes. How the intensity of Elauriel's feelings had been like an avalanche burying Benji and he'd had no choice, but to reciprocate the woman's feelings with the same honest intensity. Oh how they had loved each other and their bond had shocked the hobbits of the Shire even more, than Belladonna and Bungo's relationship had. She could distinctly remember how their mother had gazed up at Elauriel, her deep brown eyes wide in shock and awe and the elderly, matriarchal head of the Took clan had fingered her grey hair nervously, as she stood before the majestic elf. Their relationship had been accepted by the Took family, eventhough some had found the match quite strange indeed. Yet some of the citizens of Hobbiton had not been as accepting. Their bond had been the subject of some malicious gossiping and tittering for a long time, but both Benji and Elauriel had not been detered and they had consumated their love by getting married. But then her brother had died and had taken Elauriel's will to live with him. And they had abandoned their young child to deal with the pain at their abandonment of her.

She wondered if Laurel felt as acutely as elves seemed to do, or if she similarly to Hobbits was more tranquil with her emotions. Yet Belladonna suspected that Laurel had taken after her mother. She was already so similar to Elauriel and she feared that when Laurel fell in love it would be similarly intense and all-consuming as her mother's romance had gone. That is if Laurel even fell in love, because she doubted that the girl would be able to go on much longer, if she kept herself locked away in her room, grieving deeply for her mother.

Yet what she saw next made her heart soar with hope and caused a bright, affectionate smile to twist her weathered lips. She was shaken out of her reverie, when she heard the soft creaking of her wooden floorboards, announcing the wandering of an individual. Since both she and Bilbo were sat at the table and had not moved after their satisfying meal, she could only reach one conclusion and this caused her to snap her head toward the source of the sound. She saw the little girl that had been the object of her recent thoughts, standing in the middle of the archway to the kitchen. The girl looked slightly nervous and she was wringing her little hands in trepidated agitation and was biting her full, rosy bottom lip. She looked up through her lashes at Belladonna and it again hit the hobbit woman, how enchanting this little girl was. The girl had come out of her room, probably prompted by the mouth-watering smell of the pastry she had baked this morning, which's scent still hung temptingly in the air. Belladonna felt relief at the girl's appearance, she still looked heartbreakingly sad, but she could not help but think and hope that her appearance was a start in her recovery. That the girl would be strong enough to recover from the grief her parents' death had caused her. She could sense the girl's shyness and with motherly affection already coursing through her veins, she called out: „Laurel, my dear. Do you wish to join me and Bilbo? You need not be shy, sweetheart." The girl then raised her gaze to her and stared at her with her cornflower blue eyes wide and unblinking. She could see the conflict in the child's eyes, her obvious skittishness and Belladonna silently prompted her to come to them, to join them.

Greatest was her joy, when the little girl lowered her gaze to the floor, but nonetheless approached them slowly, but determinedly. Belladonna simply kept observing the girl moving toward her, but she did not rush her, she knew that it was important for Laurel to come to her out of free-will and to not be forced to seek her out. She smiled down as the girl came to a stop before her and she looked at the girl's bowed head. Laurel seemed intent on keeping her gaze on the flower and her facial features were shielded as her red curls fell over her head and curtained her face, hid her features. She had been standing there quietly, not making a move for a long time and Belladonna decide, that she could now approach her. So as affectionately, as she could she scooped the little girl into an embrace and set her down on her warm lap. For a few seconds, Belladonna felt as if the girl's body was made of the most unyielding stone, for she had stiffened so greatly, when Belladonna had scooped her up into her lap in a motherly gesture and Belladonna questioned with compassion how long this girl had been deprived of tenderness and caring. Then after a few seconds of loaded silence, she felt the girl's body soften and become more comfortable on her lap. She smiled and took one of the remaining pastries off the plate and handed it to Laurel. The girl started to eat the chocolate sweet ravenously and Belladonna chuckled at her infantile antics, which she had longed to see in Laurel. She passed her chubby fingers through the girl's soft red curls and simply offered her silent, warm comfort. She looked up, when she heard Bilbo scrambling to get up and hurriedly leaving the kitchen. She furrowed her slightly greying brows in confusion to her son's reaction, and looked at Laurel to see her response. But the red-haired little girl was so engrossed in eating the succulent pastry, that she had not paid attention to Bilbo's exit.

Her son soon returned and grasped in his hand was a purple blossom, that she recognized as one of the sweet peas that she had planted at the start of the spring season. She would have normally admonished Bilbo for taking a flower from her carefully tended-to garden, but she recognized his act of affection and she could not have mustered any chagrin, even if she wanted to, even if she had not been immensely proud at her son's benevolence. The scene before her was too amusing and sweet in nature, so that she could only feel warmth and not indignation as she looked at her young son, who stood with his head bowed in timidness and was holding onto the blossom and then how he quickly thrust the flower toward the girl and urged her to take it. She twisted her head to look at Laurel's reaction and she resisted the urge to laugh in delight, as she saw the girl's wide-eyed gaze at her cousin and her mouth was smeared with chocolate and was agape in surprise. Laurel tenderly took the blossom from her cousin's hand and she lifted the flower carefully and smelt ist sweet fragrance. As the smell hit her, she closed her eyes and adopted a relaxed facial expression. After a few seconds, she then opened her eyes once more and looked at Bilbo and said in a soft, thin voice: „Thank you. It's very pretty." She saw how her son's cheeks brightened into a shade of red that almost matched Laurel's hair and she heard him mutter loud enough so that they would overhear it: „Not as pretty as you." She could not help herself and she chuckled lovingly at that. She felt Laurel slipping off her lap and smiling at Bilbo waterly, before she embraced him and lay her head on his chest. At the display of the sad little girl gratefully embracing her cousin and he at first responding with awkwardness, but then reciprocating her hug, Belladonna felt warmth in her chest and she felt relief. Perhaps Laurel growing up at Bag End would not only be of advantage to her, but could also benefit Bilbo. The little Hobbit Lad did not have many friends, due to his exceedingly adventurous spirit, which frightened the other hobbit children's parents and left them feeling reluctant to allow their children to play with Bilbo. She truly hoped that a beautiful and sincere friendship would bloom between her two charges and that they would both support each other and be unquestionably loyal to the other.

* * *

And Belladonna's predictions and hopes did indeed come true. In a matter of days, Laurel Took and Bilbo Baggins were inseperable. They would do everything together and where one was, you knew the other was not far behind. Belladonna sometimes felt that they were one heart and soul and she viewed their friendship as a divine blessing. With Bilbo's unwavering company and caring nature, Laurel soon recovered of her grief caused by her mother and Bilbo was no longer a solemn, withdrawn child, but due to Laurel's increasingly fiery behaviour and headstrong, daring demeanour he became more outgoing. He would indulge Laurel and go off with her into the woods surounding Hobbiton in search for dwarves and other foreign, magical creatures. But Laurel would also accept when her cousin's more complacent Baggins side surfaced. Then she would lie on her belly in Belladonna's garden and would patiently and contently watch as Bilbo drew his maps or told her of tales that were too magnificent to even imagine. He would tell her of Rivendell, he would tell her of Gondor and the race of men. He would tell her of wizards and elves and of princesses and Laurel would listen to her cousin's narrative with undiluted awe. Belladonna would watch them and she would feel grateful for the love, that had developed between them. For how Bilbo had become a brother to Laurel and how she had become his sister. She could still at times detect traces of the sadness that had haunted Laurel's first decade on Middle Earth. Belladonna could still detect ever-present traces of sadness in Laurel's sky-blue eyes and her charge's melancholic demeanour could be seen more often than not and Laurel would always seek comfort in physical gestures. She would often hug Belladonna, when she was cooking in her kitchen and she would always be at Bilbo's side and she would tenderly embrace her cousin.

Bilbo would indulge her and Belladonna could see that he valued Laurel above all other things. They grew up together side by side and their friendship deepened and they would never been seen one without the other. It did not matter that the hobbit children were still wary of Bilbo, it did not matter that they found Laurel strange, because of her different looks. They had each other and that was enough for them. In the festivals at Hobbiton, they would dance together and Laurel would laugh in delight as Bilbo would spin her around. Whenever Bilbo felt inclined to a prank, Laurel would faithfully follow him and help him burgle the kerchief of the old Baggins, who required of this textile so frequently due to his constantly runny nose. Despite her amusement, she would admonish her children, but she would marvel at their burgling skill. They would sit side by side and would watch Gandalf, the Wizard's glorious display of fireworks with amazement.

They grew up side by side and Bilbo became more complacent and he turned out to be a sensible, responsible young hobbit lad that was more Baggins than Tookish, to his mother's disappointment. Laurel grew up to be, as Belladonna had expected, a beautiful young woman with vibrantly red, curly hair and features that were delicate and almost too beautiful to behold. She was a kind and congenial young woman, with a fiery spirit, but she too became more complacent, as her time living in Hobbiton among the comfortable inhabitants oft he Shire progressed. One thing that did not change, however, was Bilbo and Laurel's fierce friendship and Bilbo would protect her from any hobbit lads, who could not take no as an answer and pursued Laurel. She would care for him and Belladonna, when household tasks began to be too exhausting for the older hobbit woman. In the early mornings you would often find Laurel preparing breakfast in the kitchen and baking sweet pastries, humming a simple, slightly sad tune. She would spend her days taking care of Bag End and either conversing with Belladonna or sitting beside Bilbo, while he smoked his pipe and looking out at the rolling hills oft he Shire. Laurel Took had become a member of the Baggins' household and in Bag End she had found contentment.


	4. Dreams

Chapter 3

_"Hold fast to dreams for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams for when dreams go life is a barren field, frozen with snow." Dreams, Langston Hughes_

She felt at peace. Contentment filled her, as the sun's light filtered through the window pane and warmed her weathered, wrinkly skin and illuminated her golden curls, that were slowly turning the colour of grey ash. The smell of roasting apples infiltrated her nostrils and coupled with the buttery scent of pie crust, the scent caused Belladonna to smile proudly. It was a warm, summer day and the sun was at ist highest peak in the sky, with it being midday. The comfortable silence that had blanketed Bag End's kitchen was broken by soft, dulcet humming and Belladonna Took looked up from her calculations and smiled affectionately at the back of the girl, who had become a daughter to her and who was working diligently to prepare lunch before Bilbo arrived home from the market. Twenty-two summers had passed, since the day that Elauriel had come to Bag End and had left Laurel as her charge. A day that should have been rued for the misery it had brought and the sadness it had caused young Laurel, but which Belladonna could not help but think of fondly. For from this day onward she had been gifted with Laurel, who she had grown to love like her own daughter. And she knew Laurel was content. She knew that the young half-elf now also viewed this day as a blessing, for she had been delivered to her new family, that had loved her and cared for her. It had not only been a blessing for Laurel, who had from this day on been gifted with a nurturing childhood, but it had also been a blessing for both Bilbo and Belladonna, for they had received a loving and caring companion, who was kind and loyal to a fault and insisted on taking arduous effort to take care of them. Sometimes Belladonna feared that Laurel did this to prove her worth, that she feared Belladonna and Bilbo would throw her out and shun her, if she did not care for them with complete and utter dedication. She had talked to Laurel about her suspicion and the young girl had looked down guiltly, and Belladonna'd had her suspicions confirmed. She had told the girl that she was loved and that she need not dedicate all of her time to Bilbo and her and that she should take care of herself from time to time. Yet, all of Belladonna's beseeching had not caused any change in Laurel's behaviour and she had continued to care almost obsesivelly for Bag End.

She looked at the slender, womanly body of the young woman, who it seemed just yesterday had been her little girl. She felt warmth and longing rise within her and with a soft voice she called out to her and bid her to join her on the table. At the sound of her matriarchal voice, Laurel turned around and smiled affectionately at the elderly woman. She hastily moved toward Belladonna and sat down on the wooden bench beside her. For a fleeting moment, Belladonna had longed to scoop Laurel into her lap like she had done so many times during the girl's infancy, when she had required mothery consolement. Yet Belladonna knew that this was not possible with her increasingly frail physique, especially now that Laurel was just as tall as Belladonna herself. She wondered if her affection and regard for the young woman was being radiated from her form, because she saw Laurel's smile brighten and she felt her dainty, delicate hand cover her own more pudgy one. The girl pivoted her body, so that she was facing Belladonna and she proceeded to rest her forehead on her surrogate mother's shoulder. Belladonna combed an appeasing hand through her surrogate daughter's soft red curls and immediately the smell of sweet peas assailed her. A smell that she had come to associate with Laurel, because after Bilbo's kind gesture that had instigated their life-long friendship, the blossoms had become Laurel's favourite plants and Belladonna, who still cared for her beloved garden, despite her progressing age made sure that at the start of each spring season she had planted the seeds for this flower. The flowers would beautifully adorn the green hedgerows of her garden with vibrant purple and candid pink, but then when the flowers were in full bloom and it was time to harvest them, Belladonna would arrive in her garden and the hedgerows, which had almost been purple with a sea of sweet peas surrounding them, would revert to their forest green appearance. Laurel would raid the hedgerows and take all of the sweet peas that Belladonna had planted. It was the only selfish luxury that the girl indulged in and Belladonna could never find it in her heart to admonish the girl for taking them, especially when she saw bundles of the flowers laying between the fabrics of her clothes and which had explained why all year round Laurel's clothes smelled of the flower. She could not find it in her heart to resent the girl for taking the petals, when she saw her making fragrance and soap out of the brightly coloured petals. She loved these flowers and Belladonna would never forget to plant them for her.

She ran her fingers through her girl's shortened red-hair. It had been a shock to her, when Laurel had arrived at home and the red curls, which had reached the small of her back had been cut off and were then shoulder length. She remembered the fright she had gotten when an undeterred Laurel and a slightly sheepish Bilbo had arrived and she had been so startled that she had let out a loud exclamation that had Laurel flinch for a moment. She had feared that Belladonna would be furious at her, because every time Laurel had complained about the untameable nature of her hair, Belladonna had motherly admonished her and reminded her of her hair's beauty and the blessing it was to have these beautiful locks. Belladonna had for the first time raised her voice at Laurel, when one summer ago she had appeared in Bag End and her hair had been almost indecently short. Laurel had been disconcerted and intimidated by Belladonna's anger. Belladonna had disciplined her while growing up, but she had always lectured her with tenderness. Yet the fierceness that the older matriarchal hobbit had displayed had been quite disconcerting and Laurel had spent the next few days in silence not talking to Belladonna or Bilbo. They had soon reconciled and from then on her and Laurel had been able to converse more freely and less trepidated, and they felt safer to display their emotions to one another. Her hair had grown in a year and it now reached just below her shoulder blades. She should have not felt surprised, eventhough her and Bilbo were responsible, sensible young adults, they still maintained their youthful mischief, that had made the pair of them the old Baggins' bane. She should have known that her girl had been complaining about her hair too much and too frequently, she should have expected that the fiery, obstinate girl would come up with something and that Bilbo would follow along in her plans, just like he had done for two decades now. She should have known her children better. She should have known that the Tookish streak in her girl's blood, which coursed through her veins would prompt her to do this and she knew that it only took one flutter of Laurel's long, dark lashes at Bilbo for him to help her in whatever she needed. The two of them were one heart and soul and would indulge in the other's wishes without any hind thought, without questioning.

She cherished the friendship that the two of them had formed and she had been grateful at the fact that they had found each other, when they had needed to most. Bilbo had helped Laurel get over the grief of her mother's indifference and her subsequent abandonment of her and Laurel had banished Bilbo's isolation and had been an important source of comfort and support, while the lad had been growing up. Belladonna could only marvel happily that their child's friendship had not diminished with time, but that it had grown stronger and more mature similarly as her two children'd had.

Yet she still worried for the young woman, which she held in her arms like a young infant. She had to admit that during a time, when Bilbo and Laurel had been particularly, almost disconcertingly close, with her almost constantly embracing Bilbo, him being fiercely protective of her against the eldest son of the Sackville-Baggins, who had taken a particular interest in Laurel, she had doubted the platonic nature of their relationship and had thought that perhaps their love had shifted, had become more romantic. But she soon cast out those thoughts, because she was once again reminded that they thought of each other as siblings, especially when she had overheard one of their late night councils, over a warm cup of tea, where Laurel had been encouraging Bilbo to court the neighbour's daughter and had given him advice. Then Belladonna had known that Laurel held no romantic interest for Bilbo and that their physical interaction was innocent and almost infantile in nature. Yet she could not be blamed for her suspicions, for all the other citizens of Hobbiton shared this same asuming, often wondering about their close bond. Belladonna simply disregarded the gossip about her niece and her son. She knew that Laurel had no romantic interest- not in Bilbo and not in anyother hobbit lad to her knowledge.

And that is why she worried. Laurel was almost of age and she had never shown interest in settling down and getting married. Her focus seemed to be constantly on her and Bilbo, and Belladonna did not want Laurel to let her youth pass her by and then in old age be alone, with Belladonna having left this world and Bilbo having married a respectable hobbit lass. She worried, because the girls Laurel's age had already been courted and the majority of them were already engaged. Yet Laurel had refused any suitor that had tried to woo her. She had disregarded the man that had shown interest in her and had declined the offer of the ones that had been courageous enough to ask for her hand. She decided to voice her worries: „My dear Laurel. Next year shall come of age. I have come to realize that you have not entered into a courtship yet. When I was your age at this very same time I was already being courted by Bungo. Do you not wish for the attentions of a man?" Laurel raised her head and looked at Belladonna questioningly. Sensing the worry in her surrogate mother's gaze, her face dropped, but she still shook her head confirming Belladonna's suspicion and increasing her worry. At seeing the worry and slight disappointment in Belladonna's eyes, Laurel sighed wearily and stood up and moved toward the hearth to see the progression of the pie she had baked. She bound her red curls to a loose bun and exposed her slender, elegant neck and Belladonna could truly not understand how a girl as lovely as her niece was not yet engaged. „I only worry for you." Belladonna said appeasingly, when she felt her niece's distress. The only response she got was Laurel nodding her head. „Is there no hobbit in all of the Shire that appeals to you?"

Laurel spun around quickly and she had a fiery look in her eyes and she said agitatedly: „No, Bella. There isn't. I assure you that I am quite content with my situation in life. I do not need a man to ensure my happiness." Belladonna lifted herself up and her bones protested at the movement, she slowly moved toward the fuming Laurel, and when she had reached her she passed a consoling hand on her niece's delicate shoulders. She saw her stiff posture soften and heard her niece exhaling shakily. „I am sorry to have become so angry, Aunt Bella. But I do not wish for you to worry about my love life. I do not need to fall in love. I am already too much like her." Belladonna's brows furrowed in sadness. She knew that Laurel resented her mother for the pain she had caused her in her childhood. She knew that the red-haired girl thought her mother to be weak and now she could understand why Laurel was so relucant in the subject of love. She took her niece's hand and guided her to the bench. She sat down next to Laurel and proceeded to cradle the girl's head against her chest. „You will not be like her. Don't let yourself be brought off love just because of a traumatic experience. Love is so beautiful, my darling girl. It is so joyous to be in love. I remember the excitement I experienced when I was your age and Bungo's attentions were solely on me and trying to woo me." She had her niece's head between her hands and was looking into her cornflower blue eyes and she had been staring so intently into them, that she had detected a fleeting glint of something in her charge's gaze, which she would have normally missed if she had not been paying such close attention.

She now looked at her charge confused and in a questioning voice said: „What is it, Laurel? Why did you look like that, when I mentioned love?" Her charge looked at her now, equally astonished at her aunt's perception. She tried to look away, but sensing her aunt's unrelentiveness, she confessed: „I have been having dreams, Bella. Dreams of… a man." The red-haired girl got an angry look in her eyes and pursed her lips in frustration, fearing that her aunt would find her silly. „I do not find you naive, sweetheart. Tell me of your dreams. Do I know this man?" Her niece scoffed slightly and with humourless mirth she stated: „No. I do not believe you do. I do not know him myself." Encouraged by her aunt's genuine curiosity, Laurel proceeded to tell her of the dreams she had been having, when she fell asleep at night. How she would dream of a place far away from the Shire. How she normally dreamt of fierce battle scenes, which she had only heard of when Bilbo had read to her from one of his books. How she would dream of the misery and the blood shed and the cruel lack of humanity of the warriors during the battle. She would dream of death and despair and it would frighten her, because she was only used to the serenity of the Shire. She told her aunt, how her dreams frightened her. But then, a man would rise from the mass and this man would be the most courageous and honourable of them. His bravery and his morality, even while killing would cause Laurel's heart to contract painfully. His nobility had her in awe and she reported that his followers were fiercely loyal to him, because that was the leader he was: one that invoked loyalty. Belladonna, while listening intently to her charge's words, had also scrutinized and watched her closely as she told her of this man in her dreams. She saw how her niece's eyes brightened with excitement and… something else that was unreadable. How she had seemed in awe of the man and what deep regard she held for this figure without even having met him.

Laurel concluded her narrative sorrowfully: „When I awaken, I do not remember what he looks like, but I know I have dreamt of him, because I feel such familiarity to him and I always long to remain by his side longer." Belladonna was gazing down at her worriedly, her trepidation for her niece having risen as she told her about this man, who she was clearly besotted with. Laurel rolled her eyes at her aunt's worry and appeasingly said: „Don't worry Aunt Bella. I am not completely naive. I know that the chances of me meeting this man are painfully slim, if he even exists. I am quite capable of separating reality and dream." Her grip tightened at her charge's words and she had ominously: „The heart is not always rational, my dear. Especially in matters concerning the ones we love." Laurel's eyes widened and she recoiled from her aunt and said shakily: „I do not love him, Aunt Bella. I do not even know what he looks like. How could I love him?" „It does not matter that you don't know what he looks like, you do love him. You may try to deny it yourself, but I who know you even better than yourself at times can recognize the truth." Laurel had averted her eyes and was contemplatively and unhappily looking down. Belladonna sighed silently and passed a nurturing hand over her cheek and she whispered so lowly, that she questioned if her niece had even been able to hear her: „Only do not let this destroy you."


	5. Requiem for my native shores

Chapter 4

_„And soon thy music, sad death-bell, Shall lift its notes once more, And mix my requiem with the wind that sweeps my native shore." The Bell- Ralph Waldo Emerson _

It had snuck up on them. The winter. The hobbits in the Shire had not awoken one morning and had been met with a rapid temperature decline. The fields had not turned from healthy, lively green to dreary, pure white in one night. The winter had snuck up on the Shire like a stealthy fiend, a mischievious cad. Temperatures had been gradually dropping, the ground had turned progressively colder, the sky had darkened and become ashen grey slowly. The winter had snuck up on them slowly, it had not taken them by surprise. Yet nothing could have prepared them for the devastation this season would cause them. Autumn and the harvest season had not been plentiful for the hobbits, with the soil being arid and fallow. The markets had turned barren and the limited ware, that had sprung from the normally so fruitful fields in the Shire, had been vastly overpriced, so much so that none could have afforded it and the precious aliment had wilted and fouled on the wooden stands.

When the first white crystals of snow had fallen from the thick, seemingly impenetrable clouds, the hobbit children had excitedly exited their homes and, with cheer and animation, had proceeded to celebrate this natural phenomena. The hobbit children had looked upon the fragile crystals with their shining eyes of cornflower blue or deep, muddy brown and they had stuck out their warm tongues, which would turn cold once the flocks had landed upon them, as if the snow would nourish them, would fill their aching bellies, a result of the lack of nourishment they had suffered due to their bad luck in the autumn season. They stuck out their tongues and tried to catch the flocks with such infantile, cheerful anticipation, as if the snowflakes did not just consist of water and harsh cold. As if perhaps these innocent-seeming bodies of white, which fell relentlessly from the sky like frigid rain, were not the culprits for the hunger they had suffered and would not bring them even more misery. This suspicion never entered the minds of the hobbits in the Shire and instead this snake-hearted fiend hid with a lovely visage was received with jubilation and elation, not only by the young and yet-simple minds of the infants, but also by the elder, adult hobbits, who had become infected seeing their younglings' joy and required something, anything to take their mind of the worry over food. The Tooks received the snow with their usual daring and adventurous spirits and immediately proceeded to run out of their hobbit holes, joining the dancing and cheering children in the wide streets of Hobbiton. The Sackville-Bagginses, with their usual conservative reticence simply continued sipping their afternoon tea and from the comfort of their warm homes, in front of the roaring fire in the hearthsid, watched the falling crystals settle upon the green grass and the light- brown earth with polite fascination.

Out of Bag End, a petite and red-haired young woman would come sprinting out of the hobbit hole and would greet the falling snow with an elation that even rivalled the young children's one. You would see her spinning around in front of the White picketfence in Bag End, with her head tipped back and raised toward the sky and her eyes screwed shut in innocent delight. She would seem untouched by the cold and the harsh wind that blew and whirled the flakes, perturbing their straight downward descent. She would seem utterly, blissfully oblivious to the cold, not showing any outward sign of discomfort caused by the weather, not shivering eventhough she was only clad in a thin, beige dress with only a thin, transparent silken shawl to cover and protect her exposed creamy white shoulders and her long, slender neck. The snowflakes would settle themselves upon her long, red locks and, as if heated by the heat of her hair's colour, they would soon melt, only allowing the untouched white to mingle and contrast with the vibrant red for a few, insufficiently short seconds. Soon a chubby and comfortable looking, young hobbit lad would also exit the green door the girl had emerged from and had in her undiluted excitement left open. The snow would also settle upon his golden-brown curls and his usually congenial face would be twisted with annoyed worry. He did not seem undeterred by the cold, he seemed fully aware of the heartless wind that kept blowing and blowing and swept over the Shire with its frigid nature, appearently intent on bringing with it cold bereavement. He would walk toward the girl, who was stood amidst the falling snowflakes and had her eyes closed and her delicate features softened, making her appear as if she was in a pleasant dream. He would walk up to her and would put a fatherly hand upon her shoulders, drawing her out of her self-induced trance. He would wake her and with a soft, but unrelenting voice he would urge her to return to their hobbit hole. To return to warmth. She would look at him and after a few seonds of undecisive hesitation she would acquiesce to his demands and follow him to their home. She entered through the circular door, green like the meadow's grass, which now only appeared white, almost like a corpse of its former self. Soon the lad closed the door behind him and separated them and the inside of their home, their haven from the frigid outside, but not before looking up at the skies, the source of the currently much enjoyed flakes, his eyes tinged with suspicion and premonition.

* * *

And the lad had been right to suspect the snow. He had been right to wonder at the intention of the unstoppingly descending white crystals, which would at first blanket the Shire, but then would vilely take possesion of it. He had been right to suspect these watery fiends, that had at first seemed like congenial playmates for the citizens, they would later so cruelly deceive. He had been right to suspect that as they had provided divertment and distraction of the worries that had gripped the hobbits since early autumn, they had been meanwhile quietly and subconsciously plotting. They'd had the sole purpose of only increasing, multiplying the worries that had gripped the hearts of the hobbits. The snow had stalked up to them and had offered temporary distraction, so that the bereavement they would later cause would only seem greater and more hurtful in its nature for it had been caused by something that the hobbits had previously viewed as a source of delight, as something that had been so beautiful, that'd had such a lovely cover, but truly only contained the most vile matter.

The snow and the cruel frigidness that had accompanied it caused sickness and ailment. The cold winds coming from the north induced an epidemic to spread amongs the mass of hobbits, who with their docile and passive disposition could not confront and battle the ravishing condition that gripped them. They could not fend off the exhausting bouts of cough that shook them and then after its end caused them to lay back on their warm beds, wearied by the exertion of clearing their breathing passages. They could not fight off the strong fever, that seized them and caused their small, fragile bodies to heat up like furnaces, but leaving their insides almost as cold as the air outside their homes. They could not fight off the excrutiating headaches, that made it seem, as if the women's meat hammers were being used on their scalps, and they could not fight off the nasal constipation that left them struggling for air and oxygen, like a flapping fish out of the stream, which ran through the middle of the hobbit's settlement. This raging illness coupled with the lack of food, which would have been utterly necessary to provide the hobbits some strength to fight off the ailment that strived to conquer and defeat them, caused the death of many hobbits in the Shire. No one was exempted, neither the young infants, who had spent but a few summers on Middle Earth and who'd had the joy of anticipation and promise running through their veins, a flowing that was cut so disappointingly short, when their little bodies were infected with this miscreed. Not the elderly hobbits, who were already weary of age and who would have passed in a matter of a few more summers, who should have been granted a more peaceful passing due to the quiet and tranquil life they had led. Not the adults, who should have had to care for their dependants, who suffered already enough, as the asphyxiating weight of responsibility weighed down on their shoulders.

The Shire, which had been previously a place blanketed with temperance and suburban content, was now the seat of death and despair this winter.

* * *

Her head was heavy with ache and she was struggling to draw a breath, since it seemed, as if a monstrous weight was settled upon her chest. Her weathered skin felt clammy and sticky with sweat, due to the heat, which her body exuded, yet she felt cold and the thick blanket, that had been stretched out above her offered her little respite and relief from the trembling, which had seized her plump body. With great effort she cracked upon her eyes, which almost seemed screwed shut, it almost seemed as if a heavy weight was lifting down her upper eye lid and she felt incredibly weary at the effort of opening her eyes. Her lack of physical strength temporarly shocked her, because all her life Belladonna Took had been an active and lively hobbit lass. Her Tookish streak, which had brought about her hunger for adventure had never allowed her to remain complacent for an extended amount of time and she had always been propelled to seek thrill. Belladonna had always been described as a brassy and impulsive woman and even as her age had progressed and she had settled down for Bungo and Bilbo's sake, she had always felt that bold impudence and audaciousness bubbling within her like a blessed potion. Now, however, she did not feel that. She only felt exhaustion and this clued her into the fate, which was creeping upon her and was almost impatiently awaiting her.

She had tried to withstand her sickness. She had bravely fought against it, especially when she had seen Laurel's despondent gaze, when she had fallen ill for the first time. She knew that she would break her surrogate daughter's heart, if she passed. Now that she had come to be a mother to the girl, Laurel would take her passing incredibly hard and would no doubt be seized by the same sadness that had gripped her after her mother's abandonment twenty winters ago. She also feared for Bilbo. He had taken his father's passing badly, but she had been there to console him, to offer him respite and comfort against the pain. Him loosing his last parent would leave him alone. She would abandon him.

But she had to remind herself that she would not leave Bilbo. That after her passing he would not be alone and that Laurel would also not be completely forsaken. That she would still be able to find comfort against the pain of grief. They had each other and suddenly Belladonna knew that they would be alright even without her. That they would manage to overcome her grief and that soon they would joy and contentment once more. It should have grieved her, when she realised that her two children were not completely dependant of her, that the world would go on, even after she had passed. This only served to remind her of her lack of importance, how she'd not had the impact on Middle Earth, she had dreamed of and desired, when she and Benji had been children and they had played in the woods abutting the Took's hobbit hole and had imagined themselves, being glorious heroes on great and fantastical adventures. She had never gone on one, she had never had an impact, she had not made a difference in Middle Earth, she had been one of many Hobbits that had married and settled down into comfortable lives. Yet she only felt joy, because she had married the man she loved, a man that due to his upbringing had been bound to disregard her and her venturesome spirit, but had loved her genuinely and who would no doubt be awaiting her to assist her in her passing and then they would be reunited for eternity. She did not feel grieved that she had not achieved her youthful, idealistic goals, because she knew that she had made a difference in the lives of the people that had mattered most to her. And as she tiredly looked at Laurel, who was sitting beside her and was wiping her sweaty forehead with a damp towel, while eyeing her lovingly and concernedly, at the girl who had become her pride and joy, for she had grown to be a kind and beautiful young woman, whose life she prayed would bring her much joy, for she had already experienced enough pain, she was appeased. As she looked at Bilbo, who was standing at the foot of her bed and was eyeing her nervously and chewing his lips in agitation, she felt at peace. Because eventhough she would die and leave her two children, she knew that they would survive and eventually return to their contented lives. They would be able to overcome their grief at her death, because they had each other.

Belladonna would have been worried if they didn't. If Laurel didn't have Bilbo by her side, to support her with his solemn care for her. If Bilbo wasn't there to assure her that she was not alone, that there was still another who loved her and would care for her. She feared that if Laurel didn't have Bilbo and his friendship that perhaps she would fall prey to her grief, that she would be completely enveloped by her melancholy. Similarly she feared that if Bilbo didn't have Laurel to care for him and didn't have her altruistic kindness at his side, that he would become bitter and alone. He was already too much like a Baggins- conservative and responsible to a fault. If she, as his last connection to the Took Clan died and left him, she feared that Bilbo and his spirit that was already subdued would fade completely and that he would be buried under decorum. But Laurel was there to keep him alive, similarly as Bilbo was there to keep her from fading.

She tenderly grasped the wrist of her surrogate daughter and the girl's eyes widened at the movement, since Belladonna had been lying inanimately on her bed for so long now. She looked at Laurel with an intentful gaze, before shifting her eyes to Bilbo and looking at him with the same seriousness and solemnity and she stated with a voice that creaked and croaked from its lack of use: „My children. I am dying." She was undeterred by the distress she felt radiating of Laurel's form, when she made this declaration, seemingly confirming her daughter's biggest fears. Her voice did soften however, as she went on: „I am dying, but do know that if I could I would remain here. I loved the both of you with all my heart and I am proud of the adults you have become." Laurel lowered her gaze in sorrow, almost as if she couln't bare to look at the buxom woman's face, that had always seemed so healthy with her chubby cheeks coloured with a faint blush of red and her constant motherly smile lighting up her features, but which now was fallow and her previously pudgy cheeks were sunk in from starvation. She saw that her son had moved closer to where both she and Laurel were located and being so in tune to his cousin's feelings, she saw him put his warm and fatherly hands on her shoulder, in an attempt to console her, to absorb her premature pain. She released Laurel's wrist and held them out, urging her children to take them. As soon as she had their warm hands in her glowing hot ones she said: „I do not worry about you, because I know you have one another. Your friendship is the most powerful thing. It is your greatest strength. Be there for one another always, never forsake each other, never deprive the other of your love." Both nodded her heads, even Laurel, who already had tears in her cornflower blue eyes. She smiled beatifically and the last thing she saw was how Bilbo enveloped Laurel into his embrace and then darkness descended upon her like a blanket and she was no more.


	6. Hundred Flowers

Chapter 5

„_I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.__" Afternoon on a Hill- Edna St. Vincent Millay_

Laurel Arya Took was kind, beautiful, but incredibly sad.

That would be the answer one would get from any of the hobbits in Hobbiton concerning the niece of the late Belladonna Took. They would comment on her kind heart and her sweet gentility. How eventhough some hobbits were initially wary of her, because she was a half-elf, half-hobbit, they could not help, but lay down their initial worry, simply when they saw how kind-hearted and agreeable the young woman was. On her daily walk from and to the market, coming from Bag End, a smile would light up her features constantly and she would greet her acquantainces, as well as any strangers with the same gentleness, not making any distinctions. Having inherited Belladonna's green thumb, she would assist her neighbours with any quandary they had in their garden, endearing herself especially to Hamfast Gamgee, who shared a similar affinity and interest for anything that could sprout from the green grass, that was so healthy and abundant in this part of Middle Earth. Belladonna Took had been an exceptional baker and cook. Not even the most conservative of hobbits, such as the Sackville-Bagginses, who had had a distaste for her unruly and adventurous spirit could have denied that Belladonna's apple and spice pie was divine. Laurel had been raised to have the same talent for cooking, providing the Baggins of Bag End with nourishment and warm meals, when Belladonna had grown too weary to cook the six meals a day, that hobbits routinely ingested. Eventhough she was not as skilled, Laurel's pies were still delightful to eat and in an effort to display the hospitality and courtesy commonly known of the race that inhabited the Shire, she would spend an amount of time daily in the kitchen, baking pies or pastries to offer any guests, who may frequent her hobbit hole for afternoon tea or simply to share with any of her neighbours, who would come by unannounced. Yes, Laurel Took was a kind, congenial and hospitable young woman, and had been brought up to show the same manners, as the other hobbit lasses in Hobbiton and throughout the Shire had. So her kindness would perhaps not too uncommon, yet it was laced with such a heart-rendering honesty and genuinity that made it commentable and mentionable, when questions about her arose.

Another aspect about her manners was that you could often see a fierceness, a Tookish tigerishness veiled by her kindness. She was a fiery and often times hard-headed girl, who would defend things and matters that she held close to her heart with a vehemence and an assuredness, that often startled others. Eventhough, out of convention's sake, she would try to surpress her fiery temper, it would still surface more often than not, especially where her cousin Bilbo Baggins was concerned, whom she loved more than anything else. Her fiery temper was often a matter of discussion, unusual as it was. It was often the subject of gossip, especially for Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who despite the girl's continued politeness to her, had grown a contemptous distate for her, due to her dislike for anything that was out of ordinary and unconvential.

And Laurel Arya Took was most definitely unconventional.

It was not only her sometimes tigerish manner, which differed so greatly from the more subdued and domestic handling of the other hobbit lasses in the Shire. No, another facet of her that was unusual and at times disconcerting in its alienity was her appearance. For Laurel Took was startingly lovely, yet looked so different from what the other hobbit lasses her age looked like. She was just as small as the hobbits, and was a few inches shorter than her cousin Bilbo. She had been the same height as Belladonna Took had been. But differently from the hobbit women, who were often chubby and buxom in their stature, a motherly figure with wide hips and softness oozing from their dress and apron-clad forms, Laurel was much more slender, having inherited her mother's figure, yet she still possessed tantalising womanly curves, that did not make her stature appear too boyish, but distinctly female. Her feet were bare and had stronger soles, similarly to the feet of other hobbits, but they were smaller and more dainty. Her skin was white like wax and cream, which was most unusual considering the amount of time she would spent out daily, either sitting beside Bilbo on the green bench beside their entrance door, contently observing the green, rolling hills of the Shire, while he smoked his pipe, or was in her garden tending to her aunt's flowery hedgerows in an attempt to preserve her aunt's legacy through the flora. Her skin was also soft like summer peaches and her features were so delicate and almost too beautiful to behold, with full, rosy lips, a small nose and doe-like cornflower blue eyes. Her hair cascaded down her back in a savage sea of red curls, that reflected the girl's spirit most accurately, with its fire-like quality; the colour was most unusual just like her father's hair had been, when he had lived in Hobbiton. With her fragile and dainty beauty, Laurel was unusual and had been often teased as a child for her mixed heritage. Yet the hobbits of Hobbiton had grown to accept and, in some cases, appreciate her clandestine appearance. Her fiery red hair, her delicate form and her blue eyes that had a melancholic undertone that made her so heartbreakingly exquisite, yet that had been present in these deep-pools of blue since the inhabitants of Hobbiton could remember.

Yes, Laurel Took was incredibly sad. Contrary to what many would have assumed, this sadness had not started at Belladonna Took's date of death. The day the kind, motherly female member of the Took clan, who had taken Laurel in and had loved and cared for her like her own daughter, had died. Not at the day the woman, she had cherished and loved like a mother, who she had cared for relentlessly, who she had taken such arduous efforts to keep alive, even when all, even Bilbo, her own son, had realised that the sickness that had gripped Belladonna's aging form would win over. That day the melancholy tone in her eyes had mostly definitely become more pronounced, like the languid sound of a flute, which's melody would rise above the string instruments in a certain part of the music; yet any hobbit of Hobbiton would tell you that the sadness in Laurel' eyes had been there unrelentingly, since Belladonna had first introduced this little girl, who had been the offspring of Benji Took and the elf he had married, as her niece, who would now live in Bag End with her and her son.

Perhaps, if one would have more time to inquire, the hobbits of Hobbiton would discuss her more deeply in detail. Perhaps they would talk about the close relationship and intimate friendship Bilbo Baggins and Laurel Took shared. How they were almost disconcertingly close for cousins. How they had been inseperable and the truest, most loyal friends from the earliest moments of their acquantainceship. How they had both been teased and shunned by the other hobbit children, who had not managed to overlook Laurel's uniqueness and Bilbo's shyness and his often too daring spirit, and the first two decades of his life Bilbo had been isolated. They would talk of how Laurel had arrived and that soon after her surprising, and unannounced arrival, which some of the village elders still disapproved of due to ist suddenness, she and Bilbo had been joined at the hips, how they had not left the other's side and how disconcerting it was, because where one could be found the other would not be far off. They would discuss how Bilbo and Laurel had been unwaveringly loyal to each other, and had appeased to the other's wish, either when Laurel had wanted to explore the abbuting forest, after the sun had set, when they should have been at home, or when Bilbo had prefered to spend a lazy afternoon lying on his tummy on the soft, green grass of his mother's garden, reading fantastical tales of bravery or painting one of his maps. They would talk, the majority disapprovingly, of the pranks the two had orchestrated, when they had been younger. How with sly feet, ghostly quietude, and mischievous astuteness, they had burgled small items, mot preferably the old Baggins' kerchief, and most would not know who the culprits were, days after the incident.

Maliciously and cynically, some would comment on the uncomfortably intimate behaviour they displayed toward each other. How Bilbo Baggins was fiercely protective of his cousin and in his youth had often instigated a fight, to defend his cousin's feelings, when one of the hobbit children had been unnecesseraly cruel and later, after she had bloomed into young womanhood, to protect her, especiall from the eldest son of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who to his mother's greatest dismay had formed an attraction to Laurel and had pursued her relentlessly, despite and in face of the girl's indignated dismay. They would whisper, cynically, about the constant physical closeness of the both of them. How Laurel would often hug her cousin or peck him on his chubby cheek and they would complain most arduously about Belladonna's upbringing and question the morality and integrity of Bag End. Yet kinder souls, who were not as disapproving of the pair of young adults, who now inhabited Bag End, both unmarried, who were closer and more friendly with the both of them, would assure you that the relationship between Bilbo and Laurel was strictly platonic and resembled the relationship of an elder, concerned brother and younger, more daring sister.

Perhaps they would discuss other things about Laurel Arya Took. Perhaps they would discuss her daily routine with one, perhaps they would comment about her dedication to Bilbo and the late Belladonna's garden, perhaps they would discuss the girl's endearingly naive and playful spirit. Perhaps, they would discuss the fact that she often walked through Hobbiton with a dreamy and longing look on her face, seemingly wishing to be elsewhere, with someone else perhaps. They might have also discussed how she had not seemed interested in any of the young hobbit lad's in Hobbiton and how some predicted, that she would spend the remainder of her days in Bag End, growing old beside her cousin, who had already commited himself to bachelorhood, after the girl, who he had been rumoured to have taken an interest in, the year before he had come of age had gotten married to a Brandybuck and had moved to the larger town of Bree. They would discuss all this with one, if they asked about Laurel Took and the asker would have enough time and patience for a prolonged conversation.

Yet for one that desired a quick description, an instantaineous portrayed opinion, the following: that is what any hobbit of Hobbiton would say.

Laurel Arya Took. She was kind, beautiful, but incredibly sad.

* * *

He rose from deep and peaceful slumber by the sound of a piercing, high-pitched cry, which's origins came from the chamber adjoining his. Groggy from sleep, he at first had asked himself whether the scream had not been a fabrication of his subconscious, something his mind had generated and that had awoken from a perfectly agreeable sleep, hours before the sun had started to rise in the east and make its predictable and reliable trajectory through the sky. Before he could dizzily dismiss the scream as a part of his dream and close his eyes to once more be enveloped by the warm blanket of the sleep of the just, another scream that was eerily similar to the one that had awoken him, once more pierced the air like a sharp arrow and sent him sitting bolt up-right in his bed. He was most familiar with this sound, having heard it before in his childhood. He was lucid now and any traces of sleep had been sweeped away by the worry he now felt. He quickly cast off the thick quilt that he had used to cover himself during the night and protect himself from the chill of the crepuscule, and with shacky legs he rose and moved toward the sound, he moved toward her, swinging his robe over his shoulders to protect himself from the chill of his halls. With noiseless steps, he exited his chambers and crossed the halls. He did not bother kocking for he knew that his cousin was asleep and that her cry had been caused by one of her dreams.

He could still remember the nights in his childhood, when he had awoken to that very same sound, which had been followed by either him going to her to wake her from the tormentous situation, which she faced during sleep or her coming to him, to entrust him with her dreams and ease the weight on her heart that had been caused by her dream, to seek his comfort. She would tell him that she would dream of her mother: she would dream of her mother's abandonment or of her mother's grieving, how the beautiful elf had deteriorated infront of her daughter's very eyes and would describe the despair she had felt at her mother's constant devastation, her almost vegetative state. He had been awoken by her screams during the first few years of her living at Bag End and it had always been caused by Laurel's dreams of her mother. Yet the last time he had awoken to her screams and the little girl had come ran into his room and had scrambingly gotten under his covers and buried herself in his arms, tremors shaking her body, had been so long ago, almost a distant memory. She had stopped dreaming of her mother, or at least she did not dream of her every night and her dreams no longer caused heart-aching screams to tear from her throat. Bilbo had assumed that her dreams had changed, for she no longer awoke from them with a sorrowful mood, but with one that was more longing in its nature, that was more yearning and so very different. He had questioned her once and she had told him of the man she would dream of. The man, who she admired and who Bilbo suspected was the reason that she had not shown any interest in entering a courtship with any of the lads in Hobbiton.

As he opened the door, the antiquated, metal hinges gave a drawn-out, weary creak and he saw that at the sound, which had no doubt been magnified by his cousin's elvish enhanced hearing, he saw her eye lids rose and her eyes snapped open. She turned her head to the side and as her gaze fell upon him, he could see that some of her distress had shifted to alleviated relief. She smiled tightly at him and sensing his cousin's need for comfort he quickly moved toward her and sat on her bed and was prepared to offer her just that. She covered his larger hand with her small fingers and squeezed them in a gesture of acknowledgement, but she made no move to speak and kept her gaze pensively on the wooden ceiling of her chamber. Taking the initiative, Bilbo broke the heavy silence: „You screamed Laurel. What were you dreaming of?" As if she had just realised his presence, despite the contact of their hands, she looked at him and after a few moments of tense hesitation she answered: „I was dreaming of fire. Of despair and pain. God, Bilbo, it seemed as if the world was ending in my dreams. A great, malevolent roar that would have chilled the marrow of the strongest, most fierce warrior. Trees, that were no longer green, but red, like torches blazed in the early morning dawn. Fire that meshed with the setting moon and the rising sun, twisting like the most intricate of your smoke ringlets. The sound of the pines on the mountain, like great mighty roars from the most frightening, tormented of creatures, while they too burned. The winds no longer blew, but moaned at what they were witnessing, the pain of innocents. Almost like nature itself grieved the horrors it had to witness this terrible morning. Yet the fire was undeterred by any pain it saw, did not care. It was red and it flaming spread. A great mass of injured people, people who had been caught of guard, innocents who were now homeless and in pain not only physically, but a deep agony of the soul. And he amidst this mass. Hurting more than any other. Responsibilty and homesickness weighing down his heart. His despair, his guilt at the pain his people had had to endure. And then… rage and bitterness, a causticness that arose and spread through him quicker and more deadly than the fire had spread." He looked down at her worriedly and saw that her face had become a mask of grief at the events that had passed in her dreams. He squeezed her hands tighter and with his thumb, he strived to flatten the crease of worry that had formed between her brows. She looked at him unhappily and sleepily and in an attempt to appease her he said: „It was only a dream Laurel. It's a few hours until dawn. Go to sleep. I will remain here." She smiled a small smile at him and closed her eyes. He exhaled deeply and after having shed his heavy robe, he lay down by her side and let sleep consume him.

* * *

He was stood before the door of Laurel's chamber and with his leather-bound case of pergament, he pondered whether or not to intrude by knocking on the heavy wood. It was late afternoon now and the sun was beginning to lower itself to the ground in the far horizon and soon the sky would be inky black. Silence hung upon his deserted corridor like a heavy, impenetrable sheet that was only broken the muffled sound of excited shatter from the other side of the door. His cousin was getting ready fort he feast tonight, for tonight would be the celebration of Laurel's thirty-third year on Middle Earth, since her birth. His cousin had come of age today. He remembered how he had awoken in the morning, and the place on his side had already been cold, suggesting that she had risen much earlier than him. He had woken by the pleasant warmth, the early morning sun had radiated on his face. He had been at first startled to find himself only with the company of a barren void on his right, a void that had been bare of her, where she sould have been lying, with the early morning light, which filtered through the transparent glass of the window shining on her ivory skin. He woud have awakened her, perhaps by jumping on her bed just as she had done when he had come of age ten seasons ago. He would have awoken her just as suddenly and he would have taken delight in seeing her disgruntlement and her rosy lips in a dissatisfied pout. But she had taken this joy from him, when she had awoken earlier. He had strained his pointy ear and the faint sound of dulcet humming, originating from the kitchen had reached him, as well as the hearty smell of fresh bread and recently-brewed tea. Propelled by this, he had stood and moved toward the kitchen where she had stood like every other morning and had contently prepared to break fast with him. He had once more blessed routine and then he had proceeded to greet her and wish her a joyous coming of age.

Now he stood before her door and was embarrasingly indecisive to what he sould do next. Bell Goodchild, who was a close acquantaince of Laurel had come a few hours before and had insisted to assist Laurel in getting ready for the feast in Hobbiton tonight. She and Bell had grown closer over the past few years, since Bell too had been initially wary of Laurel and of her unusual heritage. Bilbo sometimes questioned the friendship between the two women, while Bell was perfectly agreeable and corteous to both him and Laurel, he did notice that the hobbit woman was often frugal in face of the friendship between Laurel and Hamfast Gamgee, their neighbour. The two of them had grown closer, when Laurel had started to tend to his mother's garden and had discovered the joy in the maintance of flowers. At the beginning she had been more cautious and had gardened more gingerly, in fear that she would do something wrong, and she had gone to their chubby, pipe-smoking neighbour for assistance. She had been incredibly grateful to him, when he had managed to dispell her worries with steadfast and accurate advice and they had grown friendly over their shared hobby. And Bell had grown suspicious and wary, not quite welcoming the newly blossomed kinship between her friend and the man, who she fancied and had entered into a courtship with. Laurel would be adamant to assure Bell that she and Hamfast were only friends and that their relationship, similarly to her and Bilbo's, was only platonic in nature. Appeased, Bell had accepted the friendship, but Bilbo knew that she was on guard and provident of it.

He looked over his shoulder at the grandfather clock, that he had inherited from his father's grandfather, which was stood, leaned against the opposite wall. Bell had arrived three hours ago, surely they had finished by now, especially considering that the feast in the village sqaure would start in an hour. He raised his fist and knocked on the door, to announce his presence and wish to enter the chamber. The singular voice, which he recognized as Bell's died down, and was replaced by a few seconds of silence that mirrored the one in the hall and then by slight scuffling, the sound of quick and light footsteps approaching the door. The door opened and Bell was stood with the knob on her hand and a friendly smile on her round face. Knowing that he had come to see Laurel, she stepped aside and allowed him entrance to his cousin's warm chamber that was illuminated by the faint flame of candles.

At seeing his cousin's appearance, a wide smile contorted his face. Bell had done good work in helping her get dressed, she looked lovely. She was sat in front of her vanity, facing him and she was wearing a dark yellow dress made of sheer, which hung off her shoulders and exposed her creamy skin there. There were miniscule details of pink roses embroidered in the gown and it was floor-length. Her red curls had been swept back in a loose ponytail, held by pink and musk green ribbons, with a few, curly tendrils of red having swept out and framing her pale cheeks. She had a textile head-dress, made oft he same yellow fabric, embroidered with delicate roses running across her forehead. She was looking at him expectantly and smiling a small smile.

„I have to go now and get ready myself. I will see the two of you at the town square in an hour." Laurel smiled gratefully at her friend and said in farewell: „Of course, thank you so much for having helped me, Bell." The buxom woman waved her hand in a dismissing gesture, before she exited the chambers and closed the door behind her leaving Laurel and Bilbo alone. He moved toward her and sat on the stool, which Bell had supposedly occupied previously.

He looked at his cousin with a proud smile and he told her that she looked beautiful. In response she grasped his hand and with a grateful smile at the compliment, she squeezed it. He proceeded to paint her portrait, just as the village artist had done when he had come of age. He painted Laurel and soon after he had finsihed the coal piece, they hurriedly moved down the hill of Hobbiton toward the village square, where the populace of Hobbiton was assembled for tonight's feast. He had been consumed by anticipatory ectstasy at tonight's event, while he had been painting her portrait so he had taken no note of the detail he would come to ponder in later years, when his hair had long gone gray. He had taken no note of it, while painting her, though it would be engraved in his mind's eye, years after that event when for the first time he had beared to look at the painting, and what had been a joyous memory for the pair oft hem. He had not noticed that despite the smile her lips were curled in, that her eyes were infinitely sad.

The feast was well underway with the succulent smell of various warm dishes, wafting and warming the air and the village square, which would have been quite reticent on normal days at this hour of night, was filled and aloud with the excited sound of conversation and joy. He was sitting on the wooden bench beneath a beerch tree and was humidfying his dry mouth with some cool ale. His heart was racing and he had shed his overcoat as he had soon grown hot under the fabric in the warm summer night and after having danced with Laurel for a long intervall of time. He observed his cousin as she was spun around by Hamfast Gamgee, who had taken over for him, when he had declared that his feet ached and they were too heavy and he could not possibly move them anymore.

The dance soon came to an end and Laurel, whose cheek were dusted red with exhaustion and excitement thanked Hamfast and Bilbo assumed that she would most likely join his company and rest after having danced so much. He saw how she smiled at Hamfast gratefully and then Hamfast slightly bowed down to her and pressed his lips to her overheated cheeks. A gesture that had been perfectly innocent to Bilbo, was not perceived as platonically by others, especially by Bell, who stormed off in an offended huff. Laurel had at that moment glanced to her side and seen her friend's discontent, and her face fell. She ran after Bell and Bilbo seeing his cousin's unhappiness at the misunderstanding, quickly rose and went after the two women. As he moved closer he saw that Laurel was proceeding to explain the situation to Bell, but he was too far of to hear his cousin's justification. When he had moved closer, he heard Bell say in response: „I do not care for your explanations Laurel. You are my friend and you knew how fond I am of Hamfast, yet you still disrespect our courtship by your shameless intimacy with him. Just because you have realised that you will likely end up an old maid, because of your foolish infatuation with a dream does not mean that you have to take my betrothed from me." He felt hot indignation rise through him, especially when he saw his cousin's shoulders slump. He came up beside her and put his arms around her shoulders in a steadying gesture and told the buxom woman, who was attempting to uphold a proud and self-assured expression, despite the fact that he could see her cringing at the hurt Laurel displayed on her face: „That's enough, Bell. Please leave me and Laurel for a moment." She looked at him, but she showed no reluctance or hesitation and quickly left.

After she had left, he heard Laurel exhale shakily and getly, but firmly shrug off his arm and move to sit on the grassed elevation, abutting the earthy road. She saw that she had her knees drawn up and was staring off into the distance with an unreadable emotion in her eyes and her lips pursed. He moved to sit down beside her on the slightly wet grass and again slung his arms over her shoulders, holding her in a consoling embrace. When it became clear that she would not adress him, he said: „Do not listen to her, Laurel. She was simply annoyed that you and Hamfast were so close. She has never approved of your friendship and has always had the nagging suspicion that there could be more. She does not truly mean her hurtful words, cousin." She sat silently beside him and gave no indication that she had heard her word and for a moment Bilbo wondered if she was not elsewhere in her mind. „Even if you do end up an old, unmarried maid, you shall not be alone, because I will also grow old unmarried. We shall grow old in Bag End, contently and disregard the malicious gossip of those confounded hobbits." She once more gave no answer and if he had not felt the warmth of her body beside him, he could have sworn that she was not present and he was speaking to himself. He felt slight worry seize him and he said: „Please talk to me. Answer me, Laurie." At the sound of her nickname, she was roused of her waking sleep and she leaned her head to the side, so that she was resting it against his shoulder. „Nobody loves me, nobody cares for me, but you, Bilbo. You are my only true friend and that I shall never forget." And then silence came over them and Bilbo did not attempt to break it, because he knew it was not necessary. The two hobbits of Bag End sat on the humid grass, the contented silence between them broken by the fading noise of the feast and stared up at the stars above them. Oblivious to the events that would soon take place in their lives and that would forever change the course they had expected of themselves.


	7. Book Two: Hope and Feathers

**Book Two: In which Thorin Oakenshield's quest is revealed**

Chapter 1

_"Hope" is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all"- Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson _

She was making her way up from the market to Bag End on this late summer morning, whilst the sun shone on her hair and warmed her pale features. The summer season was coming to an end and soon autumn would arrive. Autumn, which would bring the harvest season with it, where the fields and its fruits would be ripe for plucking. Autumn, when the almost oppresively hot temperatures would gradually drop and the vibrantly green leaves would slowly turn to warm shades of brown, yellow and red and would drop from the trees to lie on the floor, where they would slowly disintegrate to dust and earth. When they would meet their end.

She had become a creature of routine, encouraged by her cousin Bilbo, who had become more of a Baggins and had almost completely forsaken his Tookish Streak as his age had progressed. She had become more complacent, especially after her aunt Belladonna Took had died and due to his mother's death, Bilbo had become even more homey, as if he wished to erase any memory of his mother, as if he wished to subdue any resemblance he bore to her. It had been done unconsciously no doubt, but Laurel had recognized it, especially as she had done the same thing, when her mother Elauriel had abandoned her and gone to fade. She had tried to dispell any similarity, any characteristic inherited from her mother, that she had possessed. Yet, differently from Bilbo she had failed miserably, because despite the fact that she had resented her mother and had dreaded becoming like her, treacherously she had longed for it all the same, because it had been a way to hold onto the memory of the woman, that despite her indifference toward her daughter, she had loved all the same. Bilbo had managed to dispell any Tookish streak he had possessed and, eventhough she had made no mention of it, it had pained Laurel, as she recalled the hours they had spent in the wood searching for any of her and her mother's kin, searching for the courageous and fierce warriors, that had sprung from the race of dwarves or men. How they had spent hours reenacting the tales that had been in Bilbo's storybook and how they had envisioned themselves, as the glorious heroes they had been in awe of, how they too had longed to make an impact on Middle Earth through their own self-crafted tales of bravery. But she had recognized Bilbo's pain and had made no mention of how he had become so much like his father. She had never had the fortune of meeting Bungo, though she resented that, because Bilbo would always talk with such fondness of his late father and would paint him in the most agreeable light. But he was a Baggins of Bag End and though he had accepted the Tookish Streak that had coursed through both Belladonna and Bilbo, Laurel was already acquainted with enough Bagginses to know that they were responsible and almost intolerant of any exceptionality in others. She had to bitterly think of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who she would treat with begruding courtesy, as a favour to Bilbo, eventhough she was quite disliking toward the snooty woman, who made no secret of her distaste for Laurel and her unique heritage, eventhough Laurel had long since adapted to the domestic and homey ways of the hobbits in Hobbiton, having grown up in this bucolic environment.

So she had become homely and a creature of habit, especially when Belladonna's encouragement to be daring and adventurous was no longer existant. She had become quite content to spend out her days in Bag End and live out her comfortable routine day in day out. Yet, there was still a nagging, an urge for something more, for something else. She could not truly envision spending her days looking out at the same landscape. She could not truly believe that this is what her life would be. That her life would be similar to that of Bell Goodchild or any of the daughters of the Brandybuck clan. She could not believe that she would spend out the rest of her days, confined to Bag End doing the same things daily. And these doubts gave origin to a wish to do something more, to be somewhere else, with someone else, though she did not know where or who, because all she knew was Bilbo Baggins, Bag End and Hobbiton. She had no friends or kins outside of Bilbo and he, with his unwavering loyalty, was quite enough for her. She had no skill in combat and did not know how to defend herself, a necessety if she were to go explore Middle Earth, because she was not as naive and mundane to believe that the whole of Middle Earth was as pacifistic as the Shire. Having read the tales of adventure, that had bewitched her as an imp, she was quite aware of Orcs, who were fearsome with their cruelty and distorted visages, of goblins and their foulness and crude cruelty. Yet she still had a longing within her that did cause her guilt, because she felt ungrateful and disloyal toward Bilbo, who would have never left her, of that she was sure and she felt as if she was betraying the promise, the last wish the woman, who had selflessly cared for her and loved her, had had. So she had subdued her Tookish Streak and the call of the wild she felt within her and she had become homely.

She had started following her routine. She rose every morning and made first breakfast for her and her cousin. Later she would lay out second breakfast for Bilbo, before she went to the market to purchase grocery that was lacking in their foodchamber. She would walk through the stalls and the wooden stands, that would hold and provide a rich and vast assortment of the most delectable ware and she would choose only the best. She would walk through the market and congenially greet her acquantainces and occasionally stop to hold a conversation with either the matriarch of the Gamgees, or the youngest daughter of the Bolgers, who would comment on the exceptional quality of the ware from Bree that week, and Laurel would indulge them, eventhough the apples did most certainly not appear rounder or more red than the previous week's had. She would inhale the ecletic smell of the aliment, that rested on the weathered wood of the stands, and she would blend out the sound of the playing children, who ran through the market in their infantile excitement, before they would be summoned by their apron-clad mothers for midday lunch. She would then trek her way through Hobbiton, uphill to her hobbit hole in the ground, to Bag End, just as she did now.

As Laurel opened the gate of the fence, so that she could gain entrance and then moved to the door, that her cousin had just yesterday coated with a fresh layer of moss green paint, she thought about her routine in the afternoon. She would cook lunch for her cousin and then she would most likely spend some time baking pastry, before either tending to the garden she had inherited from her aunt Belladonna or sitting in the living room with Bilbo, leafing through their old book of tales, which's page were thin and ratty from how often it had been used in their youth by the both of them, with flecks of green from the grass and still smelling of the woods, which abutted their home. She took the door handle and to her surprise it did not give and the door did not open to reveal the illuminated entrance hall of Bag End. She furrowed her eye brows and moving her basket, so that the braided strap was resting between the crook of her elbows, with both her hands she rattled on the door knob to no avail, because the door did not open. Exasperated and assuming that Bilbo had locked her out and forgotten that she had not yet returned from the market with their fare, she raised her fist and knocked on the green-painted wood. In response she heard her cousin's distressed voice call out, rather shriekingly from the inside: „There is no one home. Please come back later. Good Morning!" She started and looked at the door with a wide-eyed and confused gaze. She was not only surprised at her cousin's seeming distress, after having left him sitting on the bench at the side of the entrance, idylically smoking his pipe and overlooking the landscape of the Shire. She was also surprised at her cousin's lack of hospitality and courtesy, refusing to receive any visitor of Bag End and at his contradictory behaviour of claiming no one was at home, but calling out nonetheless. She said loudly, hoping that her voice would carry through the wood, just as Bilbo's had: „Bilbo, it's me. I have come back from the market. Would you kindly let me in?" She heard the mechanic clicking of the locks, as Bilbo opened the door and then her cousin was stood before her, with a slightly apologetic look in his face, and looking at her pleasantly enough, all the while still appearing slightly pale and flustered. He ignored her questioning glance and moved to take her basket of groceries off her, before he moved in the direction of the kitchen. Thinking this situation was quite strange indeed, Laurel kept her eyes glued to her cousin's back, while entering their home and closing the door behind her. She quickly followed her cousin to the kitchen.

She flattened her dark green, moss-coloured skirt, which flowed down to her mid-calf and she straightened her golden wasitcoat, that lay over her white, long-sleeved blouse and she turned the buttons, a habit of hers, before she bent down to pick up the pan she would need to cook the stew in. She had fixed her unruly, red hair in a neat bun and had exposed her long, slender neck in the process and she welcomed the cool air that wafted across the heated skin of her nape, especially as she stood so close to the stove, which's heat was radiated and caused her to become almost unbearably warm. Bilbo was sat on the table behind her and he had not uttered a word, since she had arrived home from the market and had gotten the most unusual reception.

She was in the process of dicing the carrots, when she could bear the silence and her curiosity no longer and she broke the contented quietude that had steeled upon them by asking: „Bilbo, what's wrong?" She heard the dull thud of him laying down the book he had been reading, or had been using to avoid looking at her and seeing her silent questioning. She heard him exhale, a little too loudly and at that sound she turned around and looked at him to see him passing a wary hand over his face. Seeing his disconcertment, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and leaned against the kitchen counter and fixed him with an obstinate glare, which was meant to tell him that she would not seize until he had thoroughly explained the reason for his queer behaviour that had been caused by something that had happened during her absence. His face fell slightly at seeing her headstrong look, that he had gotten to know well during their childhood and he knew he had no choice, but to appease to her questioning. So he proceeded to tell her of the elderly man with the pointed hat, the wooden cane and the wise pair of eyes that had appeared before him, when he had been serenely going about his routine and smoking his pipe, as he did every morning at that time of day. He told her of how he had politely bid the man Good Morning and how the tall, statesque man had proceeded to confuse him most thoroughly by asking him what he had meant with his greeting. He told her how the man had stated his reason for being in the Shire, how the man had been in search of a person to share in an adventure with. And that was the moment, Laurel's curiosity was most truly piqued and she leant forward, as if it would have helped her to hear her cousin's unusual tale more clearly. He told her how he had explained to the man, that there would be no one in this part interested in an adventure and and how he should look in another place, for hobbits found adventures inconventient things, that disrupted their suburban routine. He told her that he had been disconcerted by this most unusual man, with his most unusual conversation and he had quickly tried to leave his company and to most politely and discreetly dismiss him. He told her of how his concealed efforts had been in vain, because the man had recognized his intentions and had expressed his disappointment at Belladonna's son's behaviour, and that he had strangely felt most desolate at having let down the man's expectations of him. He proceeded to tell her, that he found out that the man was indeed Gandalf the Grey, the wizard who would create the most enchanting displays of fireworks during the solstice festivals. He had been almost in awe of the man then, remembering their fondness for the wise wizard, but that he had dismissed him most arduously, when the man had continued to express his desire to find a companion for his adventure. How he had felt that the man had been talking about him and that he'd had no interest in sharing in an adventure, perfectly happy where he was.

During Bilbo's narrative , Laurel's worry had dissipated and been replaced with amazement and undiluted curiosity. She and her Tookish side were intrigued at the prospects that Gandalf had presented and she remembered her feeling of how she had thought that she was not meant to remain in the Shire for her whole life. She had been intrigued and she had felt the excitement of her adventurous side, that Belladonna had always described to her, rise within her like a bubbling potion. And she had felt immense disappointment, when Bilbo had told her that he had dismissed the man and his offer and he had sensed her disappointment, because at seeing her downcast gaze and her barely veiled crestfallen demeanour, he had stated: „Not everyone is meant to be a glorious adventurer and hero, Laurel. I know that as children we always dreamed of it. But we are adults now, and we have responsibilities. We can not simply run off at the whims of a suspicious stranger with most disconcerting prepositions. And most adventures are uncomfortable and quite often life-threatening. Why would we risk our lives for the unknown, when we are perfectly content here in Bag End?" She had looked up at him and for a few seconds, she had simply looked at him and a silent conversation had passed between them. An occurence when Laurel had truly started to question if Bilbo was so complacent, if the young boy, who had always been the first to run off into the woods in search for elves had completely vanished without a trace. She had also pondered on the honesty of his words, because eventhough Bilbo was the most responsible of men, she could see that he too had been intrigued by the wizard's visit. He may not want to recognize, to ponder on it, but she knew him, perhaps even better than he knew himself at times and she could recognize that he had been stirred by the events of today. But he had dismissed the wizard and according to him, had been quite rude in doing so. It would be best to put the occurence out of her mind, she was meant to spend out her days in Bag End and this was a fate she was content with. She would put her childish whims of adventure-seeking out of her mind. She turned and proceeded with the preparations of lunch and her pastries. She had just fetched the flour, she would need for the chocolate buns, she was planning to prepare and had started to gather the flour needed for the dough, when behind her she heard Bilbo's voice, that was no longer heavy with solemnity, but had lightened with something akin to amusement: „We are not all meant to be heroes, Laurel. We are not all destined to be the most honourable warriors, like your beloved.", he teased her. Her mouth dropped open and she let out a huff, that was an odd mixture between an indignated grunt and an amused scoff and she turned around to see his mischievious smile. She threw the flour she held in her hands at Bilbo, but he was too far off and the powdery substance did not reach him, but fell to the previously clean wooden floor. She groaned and turned around, and then she rolled her eyes when she heard his amused chuckle at her antics. She confounded him and ordered him to leave the kitchen, which he reluctantly did, leaving her to her cooking.

* * *

They were both sitting on the kitchen table, the darkness that filtered through the kitchen window broken by the faint flickering of the candle. Bilbo proceeded to enthusiastically squirt lemon juice over the delectable fish that he had cooked for dinner. The smell of the seared meat only increased her appetite and they were about to start their meal, when an ominous-sounding knock came from the entrance. They both put down their utensils and looked at each other with their brows furrowed, identical expressions of confusion in their faces. „I'll get it." Bilbo said and he proceeded to stand up and move toward the entrance hall. She sat and waited for her cousin to return, so that they could both eat their dinner that was turning cold. But when she heard footsteps coming toward her and expected Bilbo's familiar form to appear she was startled that the person, who appeared before her was most definitely not her cousin. Most definitely not Bilbo, who, bless him, did not have a single intimidating facet to his appearance. Who was a soft and comfortable looking hobbit, who seemed so tranquil and did not appear to be able to hurt a fly. To be exact the person who appeared before her was exactly the opposite of Bilbo. He oozed a ominous and threatening atmosphere with his heavy armour and his bald head, on which there were some ink-drawings, that looked tribal and ancient and slightly faded in their appearance. The top of his scalp was bare, save for these tattoos, yet slightly greying hair still flowed down his back and he had a thick and long beard. He was much broader than Bilbo, and so gave the illusion that he was much stronger and infinitely threatening to Laurel, as she was only used to seeing the slight and chubby stature of the man in Hobbiton. But this man with his leather armour, his thick fur cloak and the menacing glint in his narrowed eyes that were almost indistinguishable due to his heavy-set and furrowed brows, gave him the impression of a warrior.

She caught her composure and blushed slightly, that she had been studying him so intently and had completely forgotten her manners, she quickly stood and this seemingly propelled the man to say in a deep and raspy voice, that was slightly accented, the origin she could not place: „Dwalin, at your service." She curtseyed out of courtesy and stated in a voice that seemed even softer, compared to his guttural rasping: „Laurel, at your's sir." He gave her a barely perceptible nod in acknowledgement and then his eyes fell on her cousin's plate and he quickly moved toward the table and sat himself down on Bilbo's chair and proceeded to eat his dinner. She was so surprised at his inadvertent and sudden behaviour, that she had been simply looking at him wide-eyed still flustered by his sudden arrival. So surprised she had been, that she had not even heard how Bilbo had come to stand by her side and look at their unexpected guest with equal astonishment. But the man was undettered by their staring, he gave no indication that he had acknoweldged or even realized their disbelieving scrutiny and he simply proceeded to eat the fish Bilbo had been so looking forward to, at an almost astonishing speed. She heard Bilbo's airy whisper beside her: „Dwarf" And her eyes immediately widened and her curiosity in their guest was once more piqued. Of course, she had been so surprised at him and his annouced visit and at his unusual appearance that she had not recognized him. That she had not remembered the description her book had given her of dwarves. How their book had once described dwarves to be fierce warriors, and having a stockier appearance yet still being taller than hobbits with great beards that they took pride in.

Master Dwalin had finished eating from Bilbo's plate and he gave a roaring burp and looked quite appeased and satisifed. She looked to her side and saw that Bilbo was looking at the plate, which was now bare, except for the skelleton oft he fish he had cooked, with longing and slight resent, no doubt having wished that he himself had eaten the food. She quickly took her plate, in fear Dwalin would too take it for he still looked hungry and she quickly gave it to Bilbo, who accepted her offer graciously. She moved to stand closer to the hearth and she now stood at Dwalin's right side and was still looking at him amazed, while he rubbed his stomach contently through his thick armour. Out of habit, she started to twirl a tendril of one red curl that had escaped the neat bun she had gathered her hair into, around her finger and then Dwalin finally acknowledged her since he had introduced himself earlier: „Very good, this. Is there any more?" She was about to shake her head, when she remembered the plate of chocolate buns, that had been left over from afternoon tea that day and which she had placed upon the hearth to keep warm and that she and Bilbo could have after their meal. She nodded and gave him a pleasant smile, retrieving the plate and handing it to his outstretched hands, but not before taking two buns off the plate for herself. Bilbo, who was wiping his mouth after having finished the fish, now fixed the still-eating dwarf with a look of disapprovement and in a voice that was counterfeitly polite, proceeded to say: „Like any hobbit, I do enjoy guests. But more so when they are announced and…" He was interrupted by the sound of knocking and again he looked at her startled, like he expected her to have the explanation for these arrivals, but she took could only shrug her shoulders, equally as confused as him. Bilbo hesitated and seemed almost frozen in place, but then Dwalin broke his reverie by saying and smirking: „That was the door."

Bilbo left and soon he returned with another stocky man, who with his white beard looked decidedly older than the dwarf, who had arrived earlier. If Laurel was honest, this dwarf also looked much more congenial than Dwalin with his slightly smiling mouth and his wise, yet kind eyes. He was stood in the doorway and when his eyes fell upon her, his smile widened and he said in a warm, raspy voice that made Laurel feel more at ease: „Ah, hello Lass. I am Balin, at your service." She could not help, but to smile at the man also and with more comfort she courtseyed to him and said: „Laurel, at your's, sir." Dwalin had risen and he joyously and languidly moved toward the new arrival and he stood before him and his deep voice boomed with elation: „Brother. You have become wider and shorter, since we last met." The older dwarf screwed one of his eyes shut in mock chagrin and he clapped his hand on the other's shoulder, before saying: „Wider, not shorter. And still sharp enough for the pair of us." Then in greeting they proceeded to knock their head's together and the cracking and hollow sound the actions produced had Laurel cringe in discomfort. She saw Bilbo, who was stood in the middle of the hallway leading from the entranece to the kitchen and he too was looking at the pair of dwarven brothers in disbelief, rubbing his forehead, as if he had felt the pain the actions no doubt induced.

But neither Balin nor Dwalin showed any indication of pain and moved toward the aliment chamber in companiable conversation, seemingly having forgotten both Bilbo and Laurel, who were the owners of the hobbit hole. Indeed both dwarves moved with such accuracy and assuredness, as if they were quite familiar with the layout of Bag End and had spent much time in the hobbit hole. Both Bilbo and Laurel followed the dwarves in alarm, fearing what would happen next, because the unexpected arrival of two dwarves at the Baggins' household had proclaimed that the impossible would happen tonight and with fear over this, both Laurel and Bilbo moved after the two conversing dwarves. While Laurel was still slightly in awe at the arrival of their guests and the fact that they were not hobbits, but a whole different race, which was proclaimed to be one of the mightiest in Middle Earth and who according to legends she had read almost reverently as a child were the best metalworker, smiths and stoneworkers in Middle Earth and were fierce in battle, almost fiercer than even men, having as their main weapons axes. But Bilbo's awe was waning and quickly being replaced by vexation at their inconvenience and the liberty they took.

Both Balin and Dwalin were looking through the food in the chamber with critical eyes and were raiding the pantry. She was still looking at the dwarves and at their critical cataloguing, she could not help but feel slight amusement, eventhough she could feel her cousin bustling in annoyance beside her. She was just about to attempt appeasing him, when he said in a voice that was dripping with annoyance and disapprovement and resolve: „ I like guests just as much as the next hobbit, but I do like knowing them, before they come visiting. I do not mean to be blunt, but neither me nor Laurel know the both you. Not in the slightest. I'm sorry." During his last words both dwarves had turned around and paid attention to Bilbo and her for the first time. The older of the two of them gave him a consolatory smile and he said: „Apology accepted." At the cheek of the dwarves, she could not surpress her amusement and she gave a soft snort, and in response Bilbo turned his disapproving and vexed glare at her. Before he could start admonishing her, another kock sounded from the front door and Laurel knowing that the night was long from over was not surprised and before she moved toward the entrance she said: „I'll get it".

When she opened the door, she was met by the sight of two other dwarves, who did not resemble the previous arrivals in the slightest. They were both visibly younger than the previous two, with the dark-haired individual of the pair not even having grown a beard yet. The dark-haired one had shorter hair that was held out of his face by braids and he was dressed in a blue tunic and a heavy cloak with intricate details broidered at the lapels, and his cheek sported a light beardy stubble. The other, who she assumed was his brother due to their uncanny similarity, had a lighter colour of hair and his was longer and braided throughout the length of it. He appeared to be older than his brother with a more mature air about him and his larger beard. Similarly to Dwalin, he also wore a furred cloak, which made him appear much broader. When she had opened the door and stood before them with a pleasant and slightly expectant smile on her face, she had seen that their eyes had widened slightly, before they caught their composure and smiled at her widely and somewhat appreciatively and the blonde-haired one stated and took her hand in his larger and more calloused one: „Fili.." the younger soon followed his brother's example and introduced while taking her hand and said: „… Kili." Then they both bowed and exploited the opporunity to press a corteous kiss on her hand and then they righted themselves and with flirting smiles they declared in unison: „At your service!" She felt slightly apprehensive at their behaviour toward her, but then as corteously as she could she stated: „Laurel, at your's!" They smiled at her, but before they could say anything else, Bilbo appeared behind her and looked at their recently arrived guests with exhasperation sighind deeply at their increased disturbance. Kili smiled at Bilbo and said: „You must be Mr. Boggins." Laurel bit her lower lip and averted her gaze to the floor to disguise her amusement at the mispronounciation of her cousin's last name and she heard him say with exasperation dripping from his every word, no longer mindful of his manners: „No you can't come in. You have come to the wrong house." Her head snapped up at him, due to his rudeness and she was looking at him with appaled disbelief, as he proceeded to close the door on their visits' face. But Kili stopped them from being shut out and he asked with alarm: „Has it been cancelled?" „Nobody told us.", his brother added, similarly confused and eyeing Bilbo with slight suspicion. Both Bilbo and Laurel furrowed their brows and Bilbo proceeded to say in a cautious tone: „No, nothing has been cancelled." Kili once more beamed at him and he proceeded to shove past Bilbo and walk into Bag End, his brother following him in a cocky strut.

Fili was handing Bilbo his weapons and was admonishing and reminding him to be careful with them, while Kili was stood in the hall and was looking at his surroundings with interest. Then his gaze fell on Laurel, who was stood leaned against the wooden pillar in the hall with her arms crossed out in front of her. He let his gaze roam over her form and his lips twisted into a small grin at what he saw and he proceeded to say: „It's very nice… this place." He then turned toward Bilbo and asked: „Have you done it yourself?" Bilbo who was wary and slightly trepidated, because Fili was still handing him his weapons and he sated: „No, it has been in my family for many years.." His voice rose in alarm, when he saw that Kili was no longer paying him any mind and was proceeding to clean his shoes on Belladonna's embroidery box. Then dwalin arrived and led both Fili and Kili to the dining hall to prepare for the other other guests that were bound to arrive. Laurel simply stood indecisively in the hall looking at the four dwarves who were rearranging the tables and the chairs to create more space in the rather small dining room, while she heard Bilbo's annoyed voice bellow through Bag End, saying that there were already to many dwarves in their home. It had not even begun, but Laurel had the nagging premonition that this night would change the course of both her and Bilbo's life.

* * *

She was stood beside a flustered and furious Bilbo, who she feared was moments from exploding in undiluted rage. It was half an hour, since the arrival of the last of the dwarves and Gandalf the Wizard, who apparently was the responsible one for this unnanounced evening visit. And the intervall between then and now had been a bustle of movement, excitement and activity to her with the dwarves going about the house and gathering food and beverages and stools, so that all would have a place to sit in the dining hall, that almost seemed to burst with the amount of people that were currently in it and the excitement and joyous mood they all radiated. She did have to admit that she was slightly delighted at their guests, despite the pandemonium they had created in their serene night, but she had been in awe of how different each dwarf appeared, but how they all still reminded her of the brave adventurers she had read about and revered during her childhood. Bilbo however was all but delighted and he was more worried about Belladonna's china, which she herself had not minded as much, when she had been alive and at the fact that the dwarves were creating a disorder in his neatly and tightly-laced household.

As she felt the annoyance practically radiate of him, she rolled her eyes and proceeded to go to the kitchen and cleanse some of the dishes that were stacked on the counter, in hopes of appeasing Bilbo and his fear of disorder. She soon heard the heavy and purposeful stride of a man entering the room and she turned toward the source of the stride to be met with Gandalf the Grey, who was looking down at her with a curious, yet kind, weathered face and he said in a low, but warm voice: „Laurel Arya Took, daughter of Benji and Elauriel Took. You have grown, last time I saw you you were but a small imp of a hobbit lass, who hid behind Belladonna's skirt and gazed up at me shily with her savage red hair hiding her pretty features." She smiled at him beatifically and said: „I had spent but eighteen summers on Middle Earth. Fifteen more have passed, since that time. I was bound to change after such long a time." He chuckled good-naturedly and said: „Yes, I suppose you were. Belladonna was always so found of you, that she infected me with some of that fondness. It is because of that, that I would advice you to keep your mother's heritage a secret around the dwarves, my dear. They are quite hard-headed and stubborn creatures and many do not take too kindly to elves. I believe that you would not be fairly treated, if they were to know that you were even half-elf." He had stated this with the same jovial smile, but the solemnity behind his words was not lost on Laurel and at the advice of the wizard, who she knew to be one of the wisest being of Middle Earth, she did not ponder the implications of his warning and simply nodded her acquiescence and kept his warning in mind.

Soon she heard the sound of singing and she quickly moved out of the kitchen to investigate the new sound and was met by the sight of Fili throwing one of Bilbo's precious plates to his brother. She could hear the sound of the utensils being banged on the wooden table and she heard the deep and slightly unmelodic voices of Kili and Fili singing, and soon the whole of Bag End was filled with the sound of the dwarf's jovial singing:

_Blunt the knives and bend the forks!_

_Smash the bottles and burn the corks!_

_Chip the glasses and crack the plates!_

_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates_

_Cut the cloth and trail the fat!_

_Leave the bones on the bedroom mat!_

_Pour the milk on the pantry floor!_

_Splash the wine on every door!_

_Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl_

_Pound them up with a thumping pole;_

_And when you've finished, if they are whole,_

_Send them down the hall to roll!_

_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!__  
_  
When they had finished their singing both Bilbo and Laurel had quickly moved tot he kitchen, where the plates had been thrown into. Now even she was worried, because the dwarves had used the whole of their china and if all was broken, both her and Bilbo would have a problem. But when they entered the kitchen and saw the stacks of plates, that were unharmed she relaxed and joined the dwarves in their boisterous laughter by emiting a small chuckle. She felt Bilbo's posture unstiffen somewhat, but saw that he was still regarding their visitors with a terse and worried expression. She put her hand on his arm to redirect his attention to her and then she whispered lowly, to not be overheard over the deep sound of the men's laughter: „Bilbo, calm down!"

But when they heard two strong and ominous sounding knocks on the entrance door, the laughter of the dwarves subsided and a serious and solemn atmosphere blanketed itself over them and replaced the carefreeness that had previously inhabited these halls. Through a inexplicable haze of anticipation that had packed her, she heard Gandalf's deep voice ominously state: „He's here."


	8. Orbs of the Blessed

Chapter 7

_"Bright be the place of thy soul! No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control In the orbs of the blessed to shine." Bright be the place of thy soul- Lord Byron_

They had all moved toward the entrance like a rehearsed, solemn procision. Any previous traces of cheer and jubilation had been swept away and had been replaced by an expectant and almost reverent solemnity, as the twelve dwarves had followed Gandalf to the entrance door, from where the ominous knocks had sounded and she and Bilbo had followed them, also in anticipatory silence, as if they had been infected by the dwarves' mood, eventhough both of them did not know, what or who had caused such a sudden and dramatic shift of mood. She was stood beside Fili, her arms crossed out infront of her chest in a subconsciously defensive stance and she was standing on the tip of her toes to be able to see what was occuring in the front, because she was stood in the far back, a mass of dwarves who were at least a few inches taller than her, in front of her, obscuring her view. She heard the creaking of the metal hinges, a shrieking sound which, with the tension in the room, sounded foreboding, as Gandalf opened the door and then she heard a deep, baritone voice: „Gandalf! I thought you said this place wasn't hard to find. I lost my way twice. I wouldn't have found it at all, if it hadn't been for the mark on the door." The voice was accented and slightly liliting, yet still raspy and guttural, but differently from the roaring, throaty voice of Dwalin. A shiver ran down Laurel's spin, which at the time she had attributed to the chillt hat had swept through Bag End, due to the open door. She could feel how at the arrival of this man, the dwarves had straightened and she could practically feel the respect oozing of their forms.

Curious to see the man, who would have such an effect on this boisterous and unruly assembly of men, who had acted jovial and carefree until he had made his arrival known with the two knocks on the door, that had caused silence to descend over the halls that had been so noisy only minutes ago, she turned to Fili, who was stood beside her and who had been acting quite youthful and playful with his brother previously according to his young age, but who now held himself rigidly with solemnity and responsibility exuding from him, and she asked him in a soft whisper: „Who has arrived Fili?" Out of the corner of his eyes, he glanced at her and gave her a tight smile, when recognizing her awed curiosity and he stated: „That would be Thorin Oakenshield." He said nothing more than that, as if the name should have been explanation enough, though Laurel remained as unknowing and confused as previous. She knew that the man was of importance, the reaction to his arrival had told her as much, but he was not simply a figure of respect to these men. The way Fili had said his name in an awed and reverent way made her question, who he was, why Fili had felt that it was no further explanation than his given title was needed and that she should have known who he was by his name alone. She now longed to look upon this man and wondered what his appearance would be. Would he be a battle-hardened warrior just like Dwalin, with hard eyes and an intense gaze? Or would he be more like Balin, a wise and elderly man, whose knowledge you could see in his eyes and who you could detect with a single glance had traveled far and wide through Middle Earth?

„Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of this company: Thorin Oakenshield", she heard Gandalf's warm voice introduce the man to her cousin. The leader, he was the leader. She could now understand why all had turned so solemn and respecting when he had arrived, he was most definitely a fiercely-respected leader, one that all these twelve man were almost in awe of it seemed. The crowd had still not dispersed and the impenetrable wall they builded prevented her from seeing the occurences that were taking place closer to the entrance. „So.. this ist he hobbit.", he said and she had to strain her pointy ears, because she had wondered if she had detected a mocking tendril weaving through his words, or if she had only imagined it, because his voice betrayed his self-assuredness at the fact he knew that he was of such high-standing and that his mere presence waranted solemn respect. „Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?" She started slightly at the question stated by the deep, accented voice. She did not know if it was a tradition of the dwarves to ask about battle skills during an introduction, but none of the others had, being too busy gathering food and drink to satiate their needs. „Axe or swords? What is your weapon of choice?" Bilbo had just as little knowledge of fighting as her, so this man was bound to be disappointed at their lack of skill. The only time they had even remotely done anything that resembled fighting was when they had been children and with thin branches that had fallen off trees, they had tried to reenact the battle scenes they had read about in Bilbo's book, and had wildly swung the branches to and fro, with an appaling lack of coordination. So, no, Bilbo and her had no knowledge in fighting and if the man had expected anything else from suburban hobbits of the Shire, he had been vastly disillusioned. She could hear her cousins begrudging answer and she could hear, how he attempted to induce mock-confidence in his voice, while faced with a man that was no doubt intimidating: „Well I do have some skills at conkers, if you must know. But I fail to see how that is of importance." She cringed at her cousin's response and his mention of conkers. She knew that this would carry no weight with the battle-weary fellows before her and then she heard him scoff and then say: „I thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar to me." She felt indignation rise within her and she bristled at his arrogant and mocking tone. He was cruelly and derisively mocking her cousin. Now the others had teased him as well, but she had not been that angry, because she had seen that they had not been malicious in their comments and that they were playful in nature. But this man… his arrogance, his lack of manners. She felt her temper rise in her, that same fiery indignation that she had always used to defend her cousin with, when he had been teased in their childhood and before she could stop herself and remind herself of the respect and allegiance of the dwarves that surrounded her toward this figure, she spat: „Perhaps you should be more corteous to he that opens his home to you, eventhough you enter, I assure you sir, quite uninvitedly." She was gazing with fire in her eyes in the direction of the man and she took no note of Fili's shocked and wide-eyed expression at her outburst. She was too angry and then she saw how the dwarves moved over no doubt, so that their leader could see who had so disrespectfully admonished him.

And that is when she saw him and momentarily her hot indignation was replaced by surprise and her lips parted slightly as she gazed at the tall and broad form of Thorin Oakenshield. She was surprised at the familiarity she had felt, when she had first seen him. A feeling that was most clandestine when meeting strangers, but this man… it felt as if she had known him previously, as if she had met him before. He did not seem foreign to her, eventhough she was most assured that she had never laid on eyes on him. But there was something so queerly, wonderfully intimate to her as she had first laid eyes on his majestic stance, on his bearded, weathered, but no doubt handsome face, when she had looked into his piercing, startingly blue, yet melancholic eyes and had recirprocated his intense gaze that seemed to penetrate her soul and when she saw his… impassive and slightly mocking gaze that immediately made her regain her composure and remind her of her indignation at his mocking and his ego and she stared angrily at him once more. At regarding her his lips twisted into an infuriating smirk, but he revealed no emotion, none of his thoughts in his gaze as he approached her slowly, and towered over her almost as if he wanted to intimidate her and looked down at her. She met his gaze, determined not to give him the satisfaction to see her squirm under it. He was much too respected by his kin, by his company, he had forgotten his manners in his self-assuredness and she would not bow down. She had admonished him and rightly-so. Heavy and tense silence descended upon them, while they scrutinized the other and she almost felt like a wild animal, as she scornfully and fiercely looked up at him. Gandalf broke the tense silence that had descended and blanketed the entrance hall of Bag End by stating: „Thorin. I would like to introduce you to Laurel and Bilbo Baggins." The dark-haired dwarf made no acknowledgement of the introduction and he continued to gaze at her, challengingly and intimidatingly. They had moved imperceptibly closer, so close that Laurel could sense his smell, which was a mixture of leather and the smoky scent of wood and of rain and it was so purely male and… pleasant, that it had made her breath quicken, though she had assumed that this was due to her indignation at him. His smirk widened and he broke the silence by stating: „You promised me a burglar Gandalf, but instead you get me a master at conkers, who is soft, because his woman has more fire in her than him." She heard the deep and male chuckle of the company, as they laughed at his taunting and it dispelled the discomfort that had descended upon the spectators during their silent, challenging interaction. With a last mocking smirk, he turned around and moved toward the dining hall. At his taunt and his blatant dismissal of her, her nostrils flared and her ire rose and she was prepared to stalk after him and similarly to the way Belladonna had done, when she and Bilbo had been rude to a neighbour or had taken their mischievious pranks too far, she had been prepared to lecture him. Confound him and his undeniable majesticness, his respect-demanding, solemn presence. She would not be dettered by the fact that he was the leader and a figure of respect for the dwarves, she was after all not a dwarf.

She had just made to move after him and the company with her nostrils flaring, when she felt her cousin's grip on her arms, that seemed to want to stop her. She looked at him questioningly and she saw him shake his head slightly, a disciplining look in his eyes as he had gathered her intent. „Leave it be, Laurel", he whispered to her softly and she looked at him and his passivness disbelievingly. „He was mocking you in your own home, Bilbo. Humiliating you. You can not truly ask me to accept that. Not when I have half a mind to throw the man and his entire company out of our home." He shook his head and exhaled heavily and she could see that his posture had softened, and that with his sigh he had managed to exhale some of the tension that had kept his body as stiff as a rod during their encounter with Thorin Oakenshield. She ground her teeth together and seeing his cousin's fierce obstinance he said: „It will do you no good. It shall only make the dwarve resent you for disrespecting their leader." She closed her eyes, because he did have a point and now that he had prevented her from going after him in the heat of her rage and she had cooled down she could recognize how foolish and flippant it would have been toward the others, if she had admonished and disciplined their leader like a naughtly child. She nodded her head and carefully extracted her arms from Bilbo's gaze, but she still contemptously said: „I hate that you have to take this slight without saying a word in your own home." She raised her gaze to look at Bilbo and saw him smiling sadly at her and shrugging his shoulders. She felt him take her shoulders and he silently expressed his gratitude at her fierce defending. How she had remained true to him, just the same way as in their childhood. „Would you get the leader of the company some oft he stew that you made for lunch. The other dwarves have completely raided the pantry, I don't think there is anything else left." She looked at him with indignation again resurfacing, indignation at having to serve and be hospitable to this infuriating man. Bilbo seeing the glint in her eyes, attempted to hide his smile of amusement and good-naturedly he rolled his eyes and stated: „Please, Laurel, just do it." Then he turned and followed the dwarves' path to the dining hall. Laurel went to the kitchen and did as her cousin had asked of her.

* * *

Exhaustion and disappointment. Those were the two feelings that were most prominent in Thorin Oakenshield as he sat upon the cushioned stool at the table, where his company was gathered around in the hobbit hole. He felt weary after the long journey that he had undertaken from the Iron Hills to the village of Hobbiton in the Shire. He had ridden, barely making a stop to rest, eager to arrive for the council and to meet the burglasr, that the wizard had talked and complimented so greatly. He had been elated, something that he had not felt for so long. Not since that day in Erebor, where that blasted beast had taken everything from him. His home, his title, his pride, yet had given him so much in return, as a perverse compensation for all that it had taken, which had been his by birth and divine right. How it had given him guilt over the fate and distitution of his people, that had once been so mighty, and that had been brought low by that dragon and by… his grandfather. He still felt pain at the realization he had come to a few years ago. It had been his grandfather and his sickness of the mind that had festered in Erebor's halls and had attracted the dragon, because dragons covet gold and all knew that the treasures at Erebor were vast beyond comparison and his grandfather had hoarded so much gold to satiate his greed. And it had attracted the dragon, who had wanted the gold for himself. The man, who had been an idol for him in his youth, who he had admired like no other, not even his father, who had taught him everything he knew, and whose model of a leader Thorin had wished to follow. The same man, whose cruel and shocking decaptitation by that Orcish filth had caused him so much pain and rage. So yes, it had been his grandfather's avariciousness and his own incapability at fending of the dragon and protecting his people that had brought his mighty race low. He also felt asphyxiating, crushing responsibility, he had tried to find a good replacement for their home, he had tried to make a good life for his people, but he knew that nothing would ever compare to Erebor, to the mighty, beautiful halls that ran deep in the mountain, to the walls, that had streams of gold running through them, to their incomparable wealth there. He knew nothing would ever compare not to his people and not to him, who was haunted daily be a fierce longing for his youthhood home and for the title and station that were rightfully his.

When he had met Gandalf and the wizard had made the preposition of reclaiming Erebor for the first time in decades, he had not felt those heavy and overwhelming feelings, not felt the constant Anger that fester within him, but he had felt elation and motivation, which had only been strengthened when Balin and Dwalin, his most loyal and trusted allies, who he knew to be fierce warriors, had agreed to help him reclaim their home. He had also been filled with pride at the bravery of his nephews, when they had been adamant, despite their mother's reservation, to join him on his quest. His company, they were not the most skilled warriors, most of them were toymakers and tradesmen, but he did not care, because the most important thing was that when he had called these twelve had come and he could ask no more than their loyal and willing hearts. And then when Gandalf had suggested a pair of veteran hobbit burglars to deceive their dragon, Thorin had thought that perhaps there was a chance that they could be succesful, that he would be able to stand in his halls once more, before he met his death. So he had come to Hobbiton and while he had been disconcerted by the suburban environment of the settlement, he had not been deterred to come to the council in the hobbit hole, called Bag End.

But then disappointment had taken a fierce hold of his heart and he had once more grown bitter and sceptic of their quest. This soft, small, chubby man was who Gandalf expected to deceive and overpower the dragon Smaug, who not even he and the entire of the royal guard had been able to stop that day, when he had lost everything. He had at first thought that the wizard had been jesting, because he had heard in many a tale that Gandalf the Grey was wise and sensible, yet the wizard had proven this allegations to be disappointingly erroneous, by suggesting that he take that delicate and homey hobbit on the road. He would never be able to withstand Smaug's fierceness, if he even managed to stay alive on the road for so long. He had been expecting a stealthy and cunning team of burglars, but he had arrived and had been introduced to a bumbling, flustered fool of a hobbit, who was a master at conkers and to that young woman.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by a bowl of warm, hearty stew being banged on the table in front of him with such a force that it made a loud thud and some of the soup had spilled over at the impulse. He turned his head and looked up at her with an impassive and questioning gaze and he saw her look down at him challengingly with those impossibly blue, firey eyes, willing him to provoke her, willing him for something, anything so that she could release some of her unveiled frustration at him with a justification. He raised his eyebrow at her and smirked at her mockingly, yet she was the first to break the gaze and move away from him toward where the other burglar was located. At least the girl had spirit and did not seem as suburban and subdued as her husband, but he could never take one, who looked as fragile as her on this journey. He had to admit that he had been slightly more amused than indignated, when the girl had felt the need to admonish him for his behaviour toward Master Baggins. He should have put the girl in her place, should have admonished her and castigated the young girl, like a child, a stage of life she had no doubt just exited judging by the youth of her features. But he had found it amusing, that a girl as small and delicate as her had displayed more fierceness and fire than her husband, that she had had no qualms to call him out on his behaviour and that eventhough she appeared quite fragile, she had displayed obstinance and a head-strong nature that had greatly contrasted with his first impression of her. But even in face of her display of defying him, even when she was no doubt aware of his standing in the company, he was not moved to take them, as he did not want to be responsible for either of their fate, but knew that he would no doubt be keeping survaillance over them, if they were to come. He knew that his twelve could take care of themselves, but he doubted that that was the case with these two hobbits and he knew that responsibility for their safety would fall upon his shoulders, if he were to take them with the company. And responsibility had been one feeling that had plagued him all his life, there had never been a shortage of it. He did not require any more. His focus had to solely lie with the quest.

„What of the meeting at Ered Luin? Did they all come?" Balin asked him in his weathered voice. He was eating the warm stew that had been served to him and he answered after he had swallowed: „Aye and they sent envoys from all the seven kingdoms." He said this with satisfaction, that a council that would be invoked by him would have such a high number of participants and that it would be headed by all seven kingdoms. His pride was reflected by the member of his companies, as they emmited murmurs of agreement and content. „What did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us?", Dwaling asked. He laid down the spoon and with renewed disappointment couring through him, he exhaled heavily and said: „They will not come." He heard the indignation of his company, but focused on Dwalin and saw that the veteran and fierce warrior had closed his eyes in disappointment, but also in cognizance, as if he had known what Thorin's answer would be. As if he had also been there and had experienced the same disappointment and betrayal that Thorin had when Dain had declared that they would not aid his company. The dwarves of the Iron Hills that had been one of Erebor's closest allies, when his dinasty had been at its most wealthy peak. Who had supported them and been at their side, when they had been affluent and powerful, but now that Thorin had nothing to offer them, but the certainty of peril and hazard during the quest would not aid them. „So this quest is ours and ours alone.", he stated with self-assuredness and confidence, in hopes of evoking those feelings within his company, which were so sorely lacking within him, especially after he had seen the burglars that Gandalf had envisioned for their company.

„You're going on a quest?" The hobbit's voice piped up and immediately the attention of all, but Thorin was redirected to the two hobbits, who had been standing off to the side and had silently observed the proceedings from a neutral stance. „Bilbo, Laurel, my dear fellows. Let us have a little more light.", the wary voice of the wizard beseeched the hobbits, who immediately moved to acquiesce to the wizard's wishes. Both the girl and Master Baggins, the latter who was holding a candle in his hands to provide more illumination, as the wizard had stated moved toward the table and stood in front of the map that Gandalf had laid out on the table and that showed the location of his native homeland. „Far to the east, over ranges and rivers. Beyond woodlands and wastelands lies a single solitary peak." At the wizard's explanation, Thorin once more grew longing and he was once more reminded of the wealthy stone, which his kingdom had consisted of, the impenetrable nature of their fortress and the unlimited power of his line. „The lonely mountain". He was shaken out of his thoughts by a soft and awed whisper, which came from his left and he turned his head to see that the girl was stood by his side and was looking at the map before her with almost childlike and undiluted awe. At seeing the look of wonder in her blue eyes and how her ivory skin and her vibrantly red hair seemed to almost glow, because of the light that was being emitted by the candle the hobbit at her right held, Thorin felt warmth rise in his chest and startled, he quickly averted his gaze to dispell this sensation that had arosen from looking at the burglar girl. „Aye.", came the deep voice of Gloin „Oin has read the portents and the portents say it is time." Another member of his company had piped up and said: „Ravens have been seen flying back to Erebor. As it was foretold and when they have flown back to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end." The worried voice of the burglar had disrupted the calm narrative and speculation of the dwarves and he had asked with his voice rising slightly out of fear: „Beast? What Beast." Bofur, who was sat at Thorin's right-hand-side answered in his heavily accented, throaty voice: „That would be a reference to Smaug, the Terrible. Gravest calamaty of our age." He saw how the hobbit had stiffened and out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the girl turn toward the hobbit and regard him worriedly with concern. „Airborne firebreather. Teeth like razors, claws like meathooks. Extremely fond of precious metals." He heard her soft and breathy whisper: „A dragon." Master Baggins said, wringing his hands: „Yes I know what a dragon is."

The youngest of their company, Ori, a boy he had also been reluctant to have as part of their company for his pacifistic and tranquil nature, stood and said with youthful arrogance: „I am not afraid, I am up for it. I say let's give him a taste of dwarfish metal right up his jacksie." He supressed his amusement at the boy's self-assuredness and his mock-confidence, remembering the time, almost ten decades ago when he had behaved in a similar way, unheeding of danger, believing himself to be invincible. He had been cruelly made aware of his vulnerability, of reality that day that Smaug had come. At the boy's display an annoyed murmur went through the company and he was pulled back down to sit on his stool, perfectly admonished by his elder brother. „Even with an army by our side it would be difficult to defeat Smaug. And we number only thirteen and not even thirteen of the strongest. Or brightest." Balin, his wise councellor, voiced the reality that had been perturbing Thorin throughout the length of the evening. He was fond of his company and treasured them for their willingness and their allegiance, but he was not oblivious to their shortcomings. He heard his eldest nephew's confident and slightly cocky voice: „We may be few in number, but we are fighters, all of us to the last one." Fili banged his hand upon the table and then he let his gaze, that already bore traits of the one a leader possessed, wander over his company, until it came to rest for a few long seconds at Thorin's left, where the girl was stood and he saw that his nephew's boyish face contorted as a proud smile took seat upon it, wishing to impress the woman by his side and Thorin could not help, but resent the fact that his nephew was trying to impress a woman that was already married, that he was making a fool of himself and he sent a warning glance to both his nephews, whom he had seen glancing at the girl a few times. Soon the discussion moved to Gandalf and his encounters with dragons and then a fierce and heated argument started amongst his company with many of them having risen and verbally fighting with the one sat opposite of them.

Thorin'd had enough of his company's speculation about the quest and their success, which not even he was quite sure of. He did not like to see the doubt he felt reflected in his company, that had been so assured of their suceeding, who had come to him in hopes that they could help him reclaim their homelands. So he stood and he exclaimed in Khuzdul and immediately quarreling dwarves returned to their seats and listened to him as he spoke with confidence and in hopes of raising inspiration within them: „If we have read these signs, do you think others will not have read them too? Rumours have begun to spread, the dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people, now lies unprotected. Do we sit back, while others seize what is rightfully ours, or do we take this chance to take back Erebor." As his speech came to an end, his company cheered in agreement and with their otimistic spirits restored, Thorin too felt more confident in their quest and he had spoken honestly, wishing to not only convince his company, but also himself. He sat himself back down, appeased by the cheering of his people and pointedly ignoring the warmth in his back, from where he could feel her gaze trained on him. Yet Balin, the constant voice of reason, once more found a limitation to their undertaking due to the front gate, that was locked. Then Gandalf produced a key and he almost did not dare to believe that it was what he imagined it to be and he stared at Gandalf wide-eyed and with awe. „How came you by this?", he whispered hoarsely. „It was given to my by Thrain, by your father. For safe-keeping. It is your's now." And as he took the cool metal from Gandalf's outstretched hands, he felt power course through and fort he first time, he felt hope. He felt hope that he could truly go back and reclaim his gold. That he could return home.

While he scrutinized the key, Gandalf proceeded to discuss the runes on the map, that talked about a hidden entrance tot he mountain and how the runes revealed the location, but he could not read them. „The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage But if we are careful and clever, I believe it can be done." He then looked to his right behind Thorin and supposedly at the pair of Hobbits, that were stood a little to the side. He heard her say contemplatively: „Well, you shall probably require of a burglar." The hobbit at her side snorted and in agreement he said: „And a mighty good one at that. An expert I'd imagine." He turned around to gaze at both Master and Mistress Baggins to see their reactions, when Balin asked them: „And are you two?" He saw the girl's eyes widen and then the two Hobbits simultaneously looked at each other with astonishment and confusion written on their faces and their expressions did not inspire confidence at their ability in Thorin. Slowly, as if almost fearful of the answer, the hobbit lad asked: „Are we what?" One of the dwarves happily piped up: „He said they are experts." „No, no, no, no. We are no burglars. We have never stolen anything in our lives." „I am afraid I shall have to agree with Mr. Baggins. He and the lass are hardly burglar-material." Balin said and Dwalin added: „The wild is no place for gentle folk, who can not fight or fare for themselves." Soon another argument between the dwarves had started, but the lad, who was not a burglar looked visibly relieved, while she had lowered her gaze to the floor and was staring at the wooden floor with an unreadable expression in her eyes. The discussion was cut short by Gandalf, who rose from his seat and said in an angered and serious tone: „Enough if I say, Laurel and Bilbo Baggins are burglars, than burglars they are. I can still remember the solstice festivals, when Bilbo and Laurel would steal the Old Baggins' handkerchief and no one would know for weeks, who the culprits were. Yes, there have never been truer friends than Laurel and Bilbo Baggins." He looked behind him to see that while both Hobbits looked still distinctly worried, their lips had twisted into small, affectionate and nostalgic smiles at the memories that Gandalf's words had called forth. He saw how the golden-haired, chubby man looked down to the lass and grinned affectionately at her and in response she was smiling up at him so lovingly, genuinely and brightly that he'd had to do a double take. He saw how the hobbit had put his arm around her delicate waist and how she had stood on the tip of her toes to slightly peck his cheek.

He turned away from the display of affection, as he felt an abrasive and biting feeling spread through his stomach. For some reason, which he could not explain he had come to resent the hobbit lad much more during the last seconds. He did not like witnessing the tenderness between this married couple. It was not that dwarves were highly conservative, his parents had also been affectionate toward one another in front of him. Yet he still did not like seeing the lad and the lass together. He tightened his jaw and at listening to the wizard's continued explanations of how Hobbits were light on their feet and their smell would not be recognized by Smaug, differently from the scent of dwarves, which the Dragon was quite familiar with; he acquiesced to the wizard's demands. He took the contract off Balin and without glaning back, knowing that Master Baggins was stood behind him, he shoved the contract into the man's chest, with a bit more force than necessary judging by the ‚oomph' their burglar emitted. The lad proceeded to exit the dining hall, while she moved toward him to take the bowl of stew that lay empty before him. As he gazed at her profile and at the slender curve of her neck, he questioned the wisdom of having allowed this girl to come with them. She did have spirit from what he had seen, but she was too fragile, too delicate and he wondered if she would be able to fend for herself. It was not because she was a woman. Thorin did not make any distinction between genders, especially due to the fact that many dwarven women were equally as fierce and skilled in battle as the men and that the genders were often indistinguishable from one another. But she… she was so different from the women he had previously met. She was for one so much smaller, and she did not look as if she had a single strong bone in her body. She did not possess of the same hard angles, as the dwarven women, but she was soft and satiny seemed impossibly warm, with her skin unmarred and her ivory complexion undeterred by any scar. This one was too tender and delicate for the wild, he had decided and he rued to take her, but he knew that Gandalf would insist on this girl and as the girl moved away, he rose from the chair and with complete conviction he said to Gandalf: „I will not be responsible for their safety, or for their fates." He saw how Gandalf contemplatively studied him and then he said: „Agreed." The next thing he heard was the sound of a body falling to the ground and the lass' alarmed voice, as she called out the name of the burglar, who had fainted at Bofur's description of the dragon.

Annoyance, that is another feeling that was rather prominent within Thorin Oakenshield that night.


	9. Ode of spirits and compassion

Chapter 8

„_Oh! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang as they seem to you now, Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow." Oh! Think not my spirits are always as light- Thomas Moore_

„I would take each and every one of those dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills. For when I called upon them, they answered. Loyalty, Honour and a willing Heart… I can ask for no more than that."

Balin sighed as he heard the words of his king. The response Thorin had given, when Balin had finally voiced his doubts and trepidations about the quest him and the rest of Thorin's company were to undertake. He was honest, he did not believe that they would be successful in their undertaking. He could still vividly recall the day Erebor had been taken. He could still smell the smoke, the charring on the tip of his grey beard. The desperate cries of the women and the wounded warriors, replayed itself like an eternal melody in his ear that had already become less skilled to distinguish discreet sounds. Him and Thorin were the only ones in the company, who had been in Erebor that day. Who could vividly recall the devastation, the desperation that, that firedrake had caused. Dwalin had been but a child during that time and, differently from his elder brother, he had not been obliged to face the calamity, the fire, the explosion that had sent the royal guard flying. The strongest of men in Erebor, flying like helpless puppets through the air. Only him and Thorin truly knew the extents of Smaug's power, only they knew the reality of what truly awaited them behind the sealed gates of Erebor, where the beast surely still lay, festering like a cancer and guarding their gold, that had been long-forgotten by any of their kin, except by him and Thorin.

He eyed the man before him. His leader, his king, his friend. He could see the wariness and the exhaustion in Thorin's stormy eyes. This was one that'd had to mature and grow up much too quickly. He supposed that all descendants to the throne had. That since birth crown princes were groomed to become mature, solemn, responsible and able to carry the weight of a kingdom on their shoulders. Since Thorin's birth, his grandfather Thror had taken measures that Thorin would be tutored and learned in the skills required for a king. The task had fallen on Balin's shoulder, he'd taught Thorin what his grandfather had wished for him to know and Thorin had proved the most able pupil. Before his eyes, the young dwarf boy who, at the beginning of his tuition, had been unable to wield even the lightest of swords and had been more interested in wandering his grandfather's kingdom and watching the miners collect and harvest the wealth, that sprung from the walls of their home, had transformed and grown to become the fiercest and most able warrior within Erebor's halls. He had become impertinent, ingenious and keen, something that had been achieved through long and laborious lessons. He had watched the lad become a proud and meritorious representative of the kingdom of Thror. Yet Balin, who had been not only a tutor, but a dear and loyal companion to the prince, had only realized at the battle of Azanulbizar, as they accounted for all they had lost, despite having been victorious, when Thorin had stood solemnly after having defeated Azog with his oaken branch as a shield and overlooked his weary warriors, radiating silent authority, that his charge, his pupil was a king. One whose rule could even rival his grandfather's, who had been a just and valiant leader, until he had been seized by that terrible gold sickness.

He could still remember the day, when Thorin, who at the time had been approximately Fili's age, had come up to him and had entrusted him with his worry over his grandfather's declining sanity. Over the corruption, over the avariciouness he could see growing and festering within Thror. Yet Balin had known, naturally he was not as close as Thorin to Thror, but he had seen how, shortly after the Arkenstone had come into the Durin's folk possession, Thror's love of gold had become more and more fierce. How he had increased the miner's work hours and had ordered them to go deeper and deeper into the heart of Erebor, disregarding the danger this work environment could have. No, in the last days before Smaug's arrival, Thror's greed had overriden his care and compassion for his people. Thorin had come to him, to his tutor, and had entrusted him with his worry over his grandfather and his increasingly corrupted regime. He had also entrusted Balin with his fear, that the same tendril of greed that had become fertilised and become substantial within Thror, slumbered within him. The young prince had feared that he could become equally debauched and that his love of gold would supersede his morality, his love and sense of responsibility toward his people. Balin had tried to console the young prince and rid him of his insecurities. Thorin had been appalled and worried, when he had seen the unnecessarily cruel measures that Thror had taken against a miner, that had wanted to keep one of the numerous jewels he had found in the walls of the Lonely Mountain. Previously, when Thror had been more sound of mind, he would have simply imprisoned the man. Yet, now that greed usurped his compassion, his punishment had become more carnal and pitiless, when the man had gotten both his hands removed. Thorin, who had been taught throughout his infancy, that a sovereign and just rule was not only decided on the disciplinary capability of the king, but also on when it was wise to show mercy, had been shocked by his grandfather's decree. It had been a shock to him, when Thorin had confided in him and had seemed vulnerable in face of that display he had witnessed, confirming Thror's lunacy over his treasures. To Balin it had seemed as if the young dwarf prince had long shed any insecurity, any vulnerability. But that day, he had once more glimpsed a fleeting image of his young pupil, who had felt overwhelmed at the expectations, that had been thrust upon him, since he had first learned to walk. He had tried to console the young prince. He had told him, that all creatures possessed a tendril of something within them, that could corrupt them, be it greed, cruelty, or whatever else. It was possible for all creatures to become corrupted, and only the individual themself could prevent their downfall, by being strong and not giving into the siren call of nepotism.

He had watched the lad, who has king, before him, grow up and though he knew that their quest would likely prove unfruitful, especially with the knowledge that the royal guard had been unable to stop Smaug and knowing that their company contained no legendary warriors, except perhaps Thorin and Dwalin, yet when Thorin called upon him and he had recognized the longing within Thorin to return to Erebor, he had not been able to refuse his leader, his friend. Balin, himself did not long to return to Erebor. He did sometimes grow nostalgic, when he remembered the vast wealth of his former home, when he remembered their strength and the durability of this power. Yet he had grown content and appeased with the life, that Thorin had given them in the Blue Mountains. He knew, though, that Thorin did not share his sentiments. He did not only long for his halls, for his inheritance. He also felt responsibility toward his people, he felt that he owed the experience of Erebor's wealth to his subjects. That he could only find liberation and peace from his tormenting responsibility and the guilt he felt, at being unable to stop Smaug that day, by reclaiming Erebor and the wealth that therein lay.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of soft footfalls on the wooden floor of Master and Mistress Baggins' home. He looked to the side to see the lass coming out of the room, which she and Gandalf had vanished in after having taken the Hobbit Lad, who had fallen unconscious, when the true extents of this quest's hazard had become known to him. He saw that out of the corner of her eyes, she spied them and after having seen them, she stopped in her trajectory and turned to them, smiling politely and with a melliflous voice, she stated: „Good night." In response, he gave her a small smile and bid her the same. He saw that Thorin did not answer to her bid having not even turned in her direction, but he did give her a slight nod of his head to signify that he had acknowledged her greeting. Yet when the lass turned around and moved toward her room, he saw how Thorin had imperceptibly shifted and was looking at the lass' retreating back with something akin to intensity.

He did not know what had prompted him to ask Thorin the next question. If an explanation was required, Balin would have blamed his fatherly concern for Thorin, but there was something else, a queer feeling, that strangely resembled premonition that Balin had gotten, when he studied Thorin's gaze at Mistress Baggins and so he asked, simply following this newly invoked nagging: „Is this truly what you want, Thorin? You don't have to do this. You have a choice." Thorin's attention was pulled back to him, when Balin rose and stood before his king to further reiterate his belief in what he was saying to Thorin. He saw how Thorin's gaze grew pensive and contemplative, as he said the next words: „You have done honourably by our people. You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains. A life of peace and plenty, a life that is worth all the gold on Erebor. It is time you built a life for yourself Thorin. It is time that you think about yourself for a change." He said this words with vehement confidence, because he believed them to be true. Thorin had always put caring for his people before his own happiness. Even before they had been displaced by Smaug, Thorin had always been almost painfully aware of his responsibilities as a descendant to the throne and had focused his entire attentions on his education. He had always been a solemn man. While other dwarves his age had been out enjoying their youth by indulging in beer and the amorous sorts of activity, Thorin had been learning diplomatic skills and making agreements with the merchants from Dale considering the prices of ware. He knew that Thorin had never considered getting married and having a family, a wife that would care for him. In his youth, there had been a princess from the Iron Hills, that he had been betrothed to, as king under the Mountain. Yet the bond had not come to fruition, due to Smaug's attack. The princess had been the closest that Thorin had ever gotten to a wife, yet Balin knew that Thorin would only have married her, due to the will of his grandfather and not out of love. Balin often pondered, whether they perhaps would have grown to love one another, after years of marriage, similarly as Thrain and Thorin's mother had. Yet from what Balin had witnessed, Thorin'd had only indifference to spare for the young dwarf princess.

If it had been anyone else but Balin, they would not have recognized the few seconds of hesitation that Thorin had, before giving his answer. They would not have realized, that as Master Baggins came out of the room, that he had been talking in with Gandalf and entered through the same door, the hobbit lass had vanished through just a few minutes prior, no doubt entering their marital chamber, that Thorin's eyes darkened the slightest fraction, before he raised the key that Gandalf had given him and said in the most self-assured tone: „From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me." Balin sighed wearily at Thorin's mention of Thror and Thrain. No doubt the lad's almost obsessive sense of responsibility came from his need to earn both his father's and his gradfather's admiration and acceptance. Since his youth, Thorin had wanted to earn this and had taken streinous efforts to do so. And as Balin looked into Thorin's eyes and saw the longing for Erebor and the nostalgia at his father and grandfather's memory, he knew that he would be unable to deny his leader, his companion anything, so he said: „Then we shall see that it gets done, laddie."

* * *

She had taken the pins out of her hair and was brushing her red curls, which savagely tumbled down her back, when she heard the door open and in the mirror, she saw the reflection of her cousin entering the room. Even from his reflection, in the sparse illumination of her room, that a solitary candle provided, she could sense his worry and so she lay down her brush and turned toward him, beckoning him to her with a small smile. She had known that he would have wanted to talk to her about the occurences of this night. She knew that he would have been in a turmoil, and since until now they had always entrusted each other with their deepest and most abiding worries, she knew that he would have come to her room tonight. He took the stool, that was stood beside her door and sat himself down before her. For a few seconds neither said anything and Bilbo looked down at his pudgy hands, seemingly lost, as if he no longer remembered why he had come to her, or how to disclose what he had to say to her. Normally, seeing her cousin so out of his depth, she would have instigated the conversation, but in this case she sensed, that it should be him that should actuate their discussion. So she simply allowed indecisive, tense silence to blanket them and she chose to study her cousin's face. She knew him just as well as she knew herself and better than anyone else. To many it would have seemed as if Bilbo Baggins had been untouched by tonight's visitors, or in the very least incredibly exasperated that they had disrupted their comfortable routine, but she knew better. She knew that, despite his misgivings, he had been in awe of the dwarves, creatures they had read about in their youth. She knew that despite his facade of responsibilty and sensibility, the little boy, who had wanted to be her best friend, since the first moment of their acquaintanceship, the little boy who had been her dearest companion, her one friend, her consolement, who had saved her from her all-encompassing grief, was still within Bilbo. She knew that the Tookish streak, that he had tried to obliterate, since his mother's death, had been awakened when the first of the dwarves had started to grace Bag End with their presence. The same hunger for adventure had been activated within him, that coursed within her, but that she had tried to disregard in favour to him. She could recognize how torn he was, how despite the fact that he had vehemently denied any wish to embark on the dwarves' quest, that he had been shaken by their offer. She could recognize that the words Gandalf had spoken, how the old wizard had admonished him for his passivity and his disregard for his daring spirit, had hurt Bilbo and had caused him to reflect on his behaviour, on how his preferences of lifestyle had changed, how Bilbo had gone from wishing to go on the most fantastical quests known on Middle Earth, to worrying about Belladonna's china.

„I do not know what to do." Bilbo broke the silence with his silent confession and immediately Laurel felt pity for the internal conflict her cousin seemed to be experiencing. She could see how he was wringing his hands and his knuckles had turned white in agitation. She sighed softly and laid her warm hands atop of his to stop his ministrations. For the first time, since he had sat down in front of her, his attention was pulled to her and he looked into her eyes. She looked at him with as much amenity she could muster and in a soft whisper she said: „I know. I can see the conflict you are under. But I can not make this choice for you, cousin. This is a decision you must come to yourself." He furrowed his brow and he said: „This is your decision, as well Laurel. You would also be coming on the quest." Again she felt the spike of excitement within her, but she knew that it would be too selfish, if she did this. If she asked this of him, when she could so clearly see his torment, when she knew that if she simply said something, that he would acquiesce to her wishes to accompany Gandalf and the dwarves. But she knew that she could not, she would not think about her own desires, she would think about Bilbo and his fear and the fact that they both would be putting themselves in harm's way and she could possibly loose him. She would not say that she wished to go on the dwarves' quest, that she had been enthralled by the council that had taken place in her dining room. „Yes, I suppose it is. I know you know me well enough, to know how I feel about this Bilbo." She saw him close his eyes, and she knew that he was aware of her desire and that he was battling with himself to give in. He knew her, he knew that she only endured the domestic and suburban atmosphere of Hobbiton out of her friendship and love for him. She cocked her head to the side and she put her right hand on his warm cheek, causing him to open his eyes and regard her, clearly torn: „This was always what we dreamt about as children. When we went to the forest to reenact the scenes in your storybook. This is what we wanted. This is what a part of me still wants." She averted her gaze, as if she feared to see the same disapprovement and contempt, she would see in the gaze of many of the more conservative hobbits. She heard him say: „You grew up in a Baggins' household. Would you truly leave your home?" Reluctantly she shifted her gaze back to him, and she felt relief when she did not see contempt in his eyes, but rather genuine curiosity. She should have known better, she should have known that her dearly beloved cousin would never betray her by developing contempt, when she was honest with him, so with more confidence she stated: „Home is where the heart is Bilbo. It is not necessarily a place." She inhaled deeply and giving in, she said: „It is only a part of me that thrills for adventure, cousin. A silly, infantile remainder of our childhood. I'd rather spend out the rest of my days growing old here in Bag End by your side, than to embark in the most fantastical of adventures. Whatever your decision. I shall be by your side." She saw him straighten at her words and his mask of conflict dropped to give way to his sensible and duteous Baggins' expression and she lowered her eyes, because she knew that her cousin had come to a decision and his next words confirmed what she had suspected: „We are Baggins of Bag End. We have responsibilities. Furthermore, we have no duty toward those arrogant dwarves. I believe we should remain." She nodded her head and despite the fact, that she had promised her contentment with remaining in Bag End, she could not help but feel a tendril of disappointment, as she looked at her cousin.

This was the first time she regarded him and she could not make out, any sliver of her old childhood friend within him. He had changed irrevocably, and so had she. It was only natural, they had grown up after all. She would have been foolish to think that they could always have remained those carefree, daring young infants. They had both grown up and they were both now adults, who had responsibilities, who lived in a tight-knit community. She had duties toward Bilbo, Bag End and Hobbiton. She had been naive and selfish to have wished for anything else. She had always been content in Bag End, this was her haven, her native shore. This was where she had had the fortune of receiving a nurturing and healthy childhood. Why should she wish for anything else, when she already had everything that she needed to be content? Laurel knew that disrupting her content routine and wishing for more, for adventure and excitement, would only lead her down an uncertain path, that could have a fate similar to her mother's as a destination. She knew that eventually she would loose this Tookish streak that still festered within her, especially after seeing what she had wanted to risk in favour of uncertainty. She had come to a decision, she would be happy in Bag End. She would spend out the rest of her days in Bag End and she would have a fulfilled life.

She let go off Bilbo's hand and rose, while putting on her thick, red robe over her white blouse and her green skirt. She let her hair cascade down her back and around her shoulders and she heard Bilbo ask: „Where are you going?" „To inquire whether the dwarves need anything else before I go to sleep." „Haven't we done enough for those confounded dwarves.", she heard him grumble. She smiled and with mock-appalement she turned to him and said: „Where is your hospitality, Bilbo Baggins? Belladonna would smack you around the ears with her kitchen spoon, if she could see your lack of manners. We wouldn't want the company of Thorin Oakenshield to believe we were anything else, but hospitable." He smiled and mock-glared at her, as he exited the room behind her and bid her good night, before he crossed the hall and entered his chambers.

* * *

As she approached the hall, where she and Bilbo would always spend their evenings after having eaten dinner and before retiring fort he night, reading, conversing and simply enjoying each other's company, the sound of glottal humming and rumble grew louder in her ear, and it was not until she stood in the archway leading to her living room observing the dwarves of Thorin Oakenshield's company all assembled and with an anticipatory, solemnity concerning the morning about each of them, that she realised that it was them, who were making the melodic sound. She observed the dwarves and saw how each of their faces, which had at one point in the evening been alight in carefree amusement, had been contorted with melancholic seriousness and something akin to longing nostalgia. She looked at each of the dwarves, and then she heard him and his gruff, guttural voice caused her to grow warm with something that she could not name, while simultaneously causing a tremor to wrack through her body. Her eyes were drawn to him, as he sang:

_Far over the misty mountains, cold_

_To Dungeons deep and caverns old_

_We must away, `ere break of day_

_To find our long-forgotten gold_

She furrowed her brow, as she looked upon Thorin Oakenshield, upon the man, whom she had previously thought so arrogant, so angry, so bitter. Her opinion of him had not changed, because he still seemed to be all of those things to her, but she no longer felt resentment toward him. She no longer felt her chagrin for his treatment toward both her and her cousin. She felt… She did not truly know what she felt. Yet she felt a deluge of sadness upon her, as she heard this bereaved melody and she looked at Thorin Oakenshield to see his slumped shoulders, suggesting that he was carrying an unbearable and shattering weight and she looked into his stormy grey eyes, which she had thought so cold and mocking to see sadness. At seeing the revealing emotion in his eyes, she averted her gaze in shame of having glimpsed it, as if she had uninvitedly discovered a secret of his, and was unbidden to do so.

_The pines were roaring on the height _

_The winds were mourning in the night _

_The fire was red, it flaming spread _

_The trees like torches, blazed with light_

The familiarity of those words hit her and she closed her eyes. Feeling shielded, she recalled visions of nights long past. She recalled the contrast of red against midnight blue, as the colour illuminated the night sky much more efficiently than the moon had previously. She was submerged in the agonized screams of pain and despair, as individuals lost everything that they held dear. She could hear the sound of explosions, the sound of the wind, the sound of the people as their moaning intermingled with the roaring of the fire and the mourning of the breeze to create the most dismal melody. She kept her eyes tightly shut and cocked her head, as the sound of her memories of her dream harmonized with the guttural singing of the dwarves.

„Do you need anything, lass?" Her eyes snapped open and she was cruelly pulled out of her rumifications, by Balin's question. Slightly disoriented and with wide eyes, she looked up to see that the dwarves had stopped singing and had become aware of her presence. They were gazing upon her questioningly and expectantly and having been caught so off guard, she felt flustered, as she said: „No… I mean Yes! I simply wanted to ask whether you needed anything else before I retired for the evening." Balin smiled tightly at her and said for all assembled: „It's alright, lass." She smiled unsurely, still shaken by what she had witnessed and by the feeling that she had most unpolitely intruded in something that was not meant for her eyes. She nodded and in a thin voice said: „Well then, Good Night. I wish you the best of luck on your journey, should we not see each other in the morning." With that she turned around to leave, but was stopped by Kili's questioning voice: „You're not coming?" She turned around and seeing his slightly crestfallen expression, she felt shame and lowered her head before stating almost in a guilty confession: „No, Bilbo… We… decided not to. We have responsibilities here. It would not do to leave on such short notice.", she said and she wondered if anyone else could hear the bitterness that had crept into her words. She did not dare look up at the dwarves, as she stood before them like a guilty prisoner, like someone who had just committed the most heinous crime and hearing no response to what she had said, she closed her eyes and whispered: „Good Night." But it seemed as if she was frozen to the spot. She longed to turn around and leave, to escape their no-doubt contemptous gazes trained on her. But she could not, because she felt so wretched. She had misjudged them. She had misjudged him. She had not even been able to be a good hostess, because of her and Bilbo's chagrin to their invasion of Bag End. Because they had disrupted her routine, her tedious day-to-day life.

She did not know from where she mustered the courage, but she opened her eyes and with the utmost honesty, she looked up at the assembled dwarves and addressed them: „I'm sorry." Some became confused at her apology, stated in such a broken, raw tone, but she continued undeterred: „I'm sorry, that we could not be of more help. I…" she scoffed unamusedly and continued in her rambling, unaware of the astonishment of the ones she was addressing: „I honestly wish you all of Middle Earth's luck on this journey and I hope that you are able to achieve what you have set out to do. I'm sorry for the fate that befell you, no one should have to loose their home." The last part she had stated whisperingly, contemplatively as if she herself had only realized this and feeling out-of-breath after her speech, she turned around with the firm intent of departing.

„We do not need your pity, girl." His deep voice stated and she stopped, as she felt the heat of his glare on her back. She smiled waterly at his words and shook her head. No, not pity. How could she pity them? How could she pity those men, who were so much more courageous than she, how could she pity them, when she admired the quest they were undertaking, when she had come to recognize his leadership and authority? Slowly she turned around with her gaze on the floor, but then she raised her eyes and looked up at him through her eyelashes and she knew that he would be able to read all of her emotions, all of her self-deprication, while he simply looked at her with a hard glare, that did not betray any emotion, but only his pride and his unwillingness to accept pity from a creature he no doubt thought insubsequential. She whispered loud enough for him to hear, while smiling at him sadly: „It's not pity, Thorin Oakenshield… It's compassion." He did not show any reaction to her statement, but he no longer glared at her, he simply stared at her intensely, as if he wanted to penetrate her soul. She held his gaze for a few seconds, that seemed to stretch on forever and then she said: „Good Night." She turned around and departed in direction of her room. Painfully aware of Thorin's gaze on her back. Oblivious to the contemplative look that Gandalf gave her, as she passed by him.

* * *

**A fresh, new installment to this saga. Thank you to everyone, who has favourited, followed and of course reviewed this Story. So Thorin and Laurel finally met in the last chapter and we are now getting into the plot of 'The Hobbit'. I know I dedicated much of the writing until now to Laurel's back Story and character building and that much of this chapter was spent giving you the backstory, an insight to Thorin Oakenshield. I fear, and many of my Readers of 'Catching Heaven' will confirm this, that I am almost obsessed with detailed Narration, introspection and I think that one of the most important things in a Story is to establish the characters, their relatioships and what is important to them, and character development is another big Thing for me. That is why OOCness is such a fear and pet-peeve of mine. I promise there will be Action in this Story, but I do love my introspection so don't except a Story that is furiously fast-paced, since I personally do not enjoy reading such fiction and it would be bad, if I did not enjoy my own Story, now. Anyways, I hope for some Feedback and please answer some of These questions that have been plaguing my mind (Gosh! Dramatic much?):**

**Did you enjoy the chapters of Laurel's childhood and her relationship with Bilbo?**

**What do you think of Laurel's relationship with Bilbo?**

**Do you think the Detail and introspection is too much?**

**What do you think about Laurel herself?**

**What did you think about Laurel and Thorin's first face-to-face Meeting? Was it realistic?**

**Are any of the characters, most importantly Thorin, OOC? Thorin is such a complex and layered character and I always fear writing him. **


	10. Two Roads and the World Ahead

Chapter 9

_"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference."- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost _

Bilbo Baggins awoke the next day to the early morning sun striving to illuminate every crevice, every detail of his chamber. It should have been a normal morning for all intents and purposes. The sun was shining just as brightly, as every other day and the air outside smelled of maturity, with the aging leaves and the receading warmth signalizing the approach of autumn. He would perceive the homely smell of fresh bread and the herbal scent of recently brewed tea. If he strained his pointy ears he would be able to detect the sound of soft and sweet humming, coming from the kitchen. A sound, which he had grown used to hearing routinely during the years. A melancholic tune, which he would be able to discern and recognize anywhere.

Yet he did not. Bilbo Baggins awoke and he did behold the warm scent of first breakfast. The air around him did not include the smell of his cousin's cooking, but simply encompassed the smell of the not-yet vacated dew and the warm, mellow scent of the end of summer. His ear perceived nothing, but ambient and prevailing silence. No matter how severly he would have strained his ears, his search for the haunting tume his cousin sang, as a past-time during her chores, would prove unbountiful. And this was the first anomaly of this morning.

Another anomaly was the oscillations, which had seized Bilbo Baggins, when he awoke. Now Bilbo Baggins prided himself on being a comfortable and serene Hobbit. Long forgotten were the days of his youth, where he would awake each morning and even before he had ingested first breakfast, he would run into the woods, surrounding Bag End, Laurel in tow, searching for fantastical creatures and adventures.

Now Bilbo Baggins would usually awake in the morning and a feeling of lethargy and muzziness would pack him and he would lay on his feathered bed for a few seconds, slowly awakening and becoming discerning to his surroundings, before standing up and with all the time in the world, going to join his cousin in the kitchen for first breakfast. But today it was different, because the first second after Bilbo Baggins awoke a sense of urgency and anticipation and the need to do something, to be efficacious annexed him. So strong was this urge, that at first Bilbo did not perceive the lack of the things, that had always accompanied him and his routine in the early mornings. For a creature of habit, he was most surprisingly unalarmed about today's lack of the entities, which constituted his morning routine. No, this compulsion caused him to be oblivious to the vacancy of first breakfast smell and of the sound of Laurel's tune.

It was only after he had quickly risen, propelled by this queer sensation that urged him to do something, that was most unbearable to endure lying still; it was only after that, and while he was wandering Bag End's halls, which were still not completely lit and partially in shadow, due to the early hour it yet was, that he perceived the eery, almost deathly silence that reigned in his halls and which was at odds with the tumulteous turbulence, which domineered Bilbo's interior. It was most disconcerting for the little Hobbit, yet it shouldn't have been, because this was routine. Bag End was normally reticent and tranquil in the early morning hours, as every respectable Hobbit hole should be. Who had ever heard of a Hobbit home, that was filled with clamor and agitation? No, Hobbits were quiet, peaceful folk, which made them most respectable and their homes had to reflect this facet of Hobbit existence. Especially the home of a Baggins, a family of Hobbits, which were most reputed. Yet it seemed to Bilbo, as he moved through his halls to not find a soul within them, that his halls were barren, barren of everything, barren of life. Especially after the hullaballoo of last night, created by the dwarves.

Bilbo had been so chagrined with the unannounced arrival of Thorin Oakenshield's Company. He had been incensed with the dwarven lack of courtesy and the fact, that they had most inconveniently disrupted their evening and the order, which reigned within Bag End. Not a second had passed last night, that Bilbo had not resented the presence of his uninvited visitors and, after Gandalf and the leader of the dwarves had revealed that both he and Laurel were to go on the quest, to outsmart a chiefest calamity, that was the Dragon in Erebor's halls, Bilbo had vehemently wished for the dwarves to leave.

As he walked through Bag End and perceived that the rooms, where he would have expected his visitors to be, were empty, barren, he would have expected to feel relief, relief that this most disconcerting episode of his life had passed and that the natural order within Bag End was once more restored and both he and his dear cousin could go back to their comfortable routine. Yet the only thing he felt, as he stared into the barren rooms was an outlandish sense of disappointment that shouldn't have been there. He had been so annoyed with the presence of the dwarves last night, honestly he had been frightened at the proposition the company had made. Yet as he stood almost desolately in the middle of the main hallway of Bag End, his resentment toward the dwarves shifted and metamorphised into resentment for the infecundity of Bag End. Without Gandalf, the dwarves and Laurel by his side, Bilbo felt... alone. And this cold feeling of abandonment and desolation he did not like.

Behind him he heard the sound of a door opening and at the welcome disturbance to the reticence of his halls, he turned around to be met with his cousin's familiar face, as she exited her chamber. So large was his relief at seeing her, at seeing another soul in his halls, that it was only seconds later that he perceived her occult manner of dress this morning. His cousin always appeared very composed and dressed in a decent manner, usual for the Hobbit lasses of the shire. In the last few years, she had become accustomed to putting up her wild, red curls in a neat bun and wearing respectable skirts and petticoats. He often prided himself on seeing his cousin's impecable manner of dress, and would often find amusement in remembering how often during their childhood, Laurel had returned to Bag End with her clothes completely caked in mud and her appearance almost indecently disheveled. Yet it had not only been her, had it? He had also been most uncombed, but back then he had not cared. He had not cared for convention, he had been a young Hobbit lass, whose only worry was having fun with his best friend.

The image that greeted Bilbo now, as his Cousin came out of her room, was completely different to what he had gotten used to in the past years. Laurel's curls were scooped together and fastened in a long braid, which went down to her mid-back and she was not wearing her usual skirt and golden waistcoat, but tan trousers, that ended mid-calf and a red long coat, that skimmed her mid-thigh over a green waistcoat. She carried two backpacks in her Hand and had a look of determination setting her brow. She looked up and instead of greeting him with the smile, she always graced him with when they first saw each other in the morning, she looked at him with solemnity and said: "I was about to wake you." "Why are you wearing that?", he questioned, while pointing at her attire and completely disregarding her comment. She smiled at him teasingly and said: "Well, I could not wear my usual skirt and petticoat. I believe they are a most inconvenient hindrance, when going on an adventure." With that she moved past him and toward the kitchen. His shock at her words was so great, that he did not feel dread, due to the fact that his cousin seemed to determined and obstinate to go on Thorin Oakenshield's quest and putting herself in danger. "Quest?" he exclaimed and went after her. "Quest? Thorin Oakenshield's quest? I thought we had agreed that we would not go? I thought you did not want to?" "Well, I changed my opinion.", she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world and proceeded to fill the kettle to cook some tea. Without looking back at him, she stated: "Go dress yourself, while I brew us some tea. I have already made your pack for you." He looked incredulously at her back and said: "I... I'm not going, Laurel. I told you last night, that it would not do to abandon Bag End for those dwarves and I have not changed my opinion, differently from you. I... I thought that you preferred remaining here with me and not going off with those ill-mannered dwarves. I thought that we would stand at each other's side, look out for each other.", the last he said with a tinge of hurt colouring his tone. He was hurt, that his cousin was completely disregarding his wishes and now seemed obstinate to go, even without him he feared, because he had been able recognize her facial expression and he remembered that when she got that expression on her face, nothing would bring her off her goal.

She whirled around to face him and with her hands on her hips and a slighty repremanding tone, she said: "Bilbo, I promised to Aunt Bella, that I would look out for you. Until yesterday, I thought that I was doing exactly that, but now... I see that I have failed most greatly. Looking out for you also means ensuring your happiness. Perhaps we were... content until yesterday with our lives, but we... you can not go on like that. Life is passing us by, Bilbo. I have spent thirty-three summers in Middle Earth, you have spent ten more than that and we have not done anything. We live in Bag End and go about our routine, we are corteous to individuals, who only think ill of us. We dream about adventures and fantastical quests, but when one comes literally knocking on our door, we are willing to let it pass us by. The world is not in our books or maps, Bilbo. It is outside, outside of the Shire. I will be honest with you, I do not simply want to live my life... I want to be happy, as well. And I want the same happiness for you. And I believe that you shall never forgive yourself if you let this opportunity pass you by." She had moved closer to him during the speech and out of one of the packs, she had taken out the contract, that the elderly dwarf had given him. He saw the three signatures, Thorin Oakenshield's, Balin's and Laurel's and for a few seconds, he simply looked contemplatively at the parchment. He felt torn. He remembered the conversation he had with Gandalf last night:

_"I'll be alright, just let me sit quietly for a moment.", Bilbo said, while Laurel handed him a mug of tea and came to sit down beside him, mustering him with a worried facial expression. "You have been sitting quietly for far too Long." Gandalf said with a chagrined and slightly disappointed expression on his face and moved closer to where both, Laurel and Bilbo were sitting. He looked at both of them and asked, almost disillusioned: "Tell me, when did doilies and your mother's dishes become so important to you?" Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Laurel lower her head and look at the floor contemplatively. Gandalf's features and tone softened, when he reminisced: "I remember two young Hobbits, always going off into the woods in search of elves, dwarves and adventures. They would stay up late, come home only after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. Completely uncaring for convention and appearances. Two young Hobbits, who would have liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire. The world is out there, not in your books and maps." "We have grown up, we are not nonsensical children. We can't just go running off into the blue. We are Bagginses of Bag End.", Bilbo stated most self-assuredly. He felt Laurel give his hand a squeeze, after him having raised his voice. His cousin did not want their guests to overhear their discussion with the wizard. "You are also a Took. Especially you, Laurel. What would Benji and Elauriel think, if they could see their daughter, who would spend the duration of her days, out chasing fireflies, looking for dwarves and dreaming of exactly the quests I now offer you, so complacent?" His Cousin looked up at the mention of her deceased parents and with a bitter smile, she said: "Well, I would not know. They left me at a very young age, did they not? I was brought up in a Baggins household. I am more Baggins, than Took." "Did you know that your great- great- uncle was so large, that he could ride a real horse? In the battle of the green fields, he chanced the goblin ranks. He swung his club so hard, it knocked the goblin king's head clear off and it went flying a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole. And thus the battle was won and the game of golf invented at the same time." At Gandalf's tale, he saw his cousin's features soften and a small, amused smile twisted her lips. Bilbo looked up at the elderly wizard disbelievingly, yet with amusement and said: "I do believe you made that up." Gandalf sat down in front of both him and Laurel and said: "Well, all good stories deserve embelishment. You will have a few tales of your own to tell, when you come back." Laurel and Bilbo both looked at each other and then Bilbo spoke what was on both their minds: "Can you guarantee us, that we will come back?" "No, and if you do, you will not be the same." _

_He heard Laurel scoff wearily beside him and say: "How do you expect us to make such a decision, in so short a time?" "I believed that in your case, no decision would be involved, my dear girl." Gandalf looked at the red-haired Hobbit lass, who had risen, again with slight disappointment and at seeing his gaze, Laurel lowered her head and shook it slightly. "Good night, Gandalf. If you need anything, do not hesitate to call on me." She then left both him and Bilbo alone. He could feel the confusion radiating off his cousin, yet he was most assured. He could not go on this adventure, he had responsibilities and also he was not prepared for the hazards that awaited him. He stood and made to leave like Laurel and he said to Gandalf: "Sorry Gandalf, I can't sign this." Yet before he strode off, Gandalf's raspy voice said ominously: "She may be confused now, Bilbo Baggins, but she won't remain so for very much longer. Despite what she says, she is a Took and will not sit quietly for very much longer." While he had heard Gandalf's words, he chose to ignore them. He was certain that he and Laurel would not be going on this adventure._

Yet, he had been wrong and Gandalf had been right. Laurel had not remained confused for too long and looking at her determined face, Bilbo knew that his cousin would not sit still for much longer and that no matter what he said, she was determined to go on this adventure, despite his unwillingness. Yet unwillingness is not what he felt, he felt torn. He felt torn between his childhood dreams, something that a part of him, the Tookish part still longed for, despite what he would most vehemently state. He felt torn between his longing for adventure and his routine, his comfortable life, his reputation in the Shire, his home, that had appeared so empty and desolate to him this morning. Laurel would be going on this adventure, he knew he would not be able to stop her and he was not sure if he even wanted to, because his cousin had stated that this would be her source of happiness and Bilbo did not have the heart to deprive his cousin of something she so vehemently wanted, especially after all the sacrifices she had made for him. He did not want the same sensation of loneliness, that had smothered him in his hallways a few minutes prior, to be perpetual. A few seconds of that feeling had been more than enough. He thought about the tales of adventure and glory and he felt an immense longing. This is what he had wanted before he had become almost painfully responsible and sensible. Adventures, to know the world outside of the Shire, he hadn't wanted the life Hobbits, such as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had envisioned for him.

Out of his longing sprung an intense determination, that he thought even rivalled his cousin's and he picked up the quill and before he could ponder further on the implications of his Actions, he signed the contract and looked up at his cousin's incredulous, yet overjoyed face.

* * *

They were off. The familiar landscape of Hobbiton was a blur to them, as both him and Laurel ran gaily through the village, that had been their home for the majority of their life, but which now seemed so unimportant to them. No, they did not run. To Bilbo it seemed as if they were flying, he had never felt such elation, such liberation, before, as he did now, while he had his cousin's delicate hand grasped in his own and he could practically feel the joy radiating off her delicate form and he could hear the fluttering of the parchment of the contract in the wind, which he held tightly grasped in his hands. They were passing by the Bolger's house, but he did not mind that the old matriarch of the Bolgers was stood at her fence and was looking at the elated Bilbo and Laurel in confusion and asking them: "Bilbo, Laurel dear, where are you going?" "We are going on an adventure." His voice was filled with anticipation and he heard Laurel's chuckle beside him and saw her beaming smile, as they ran toward Thorin Oakenshield's Company.

Soon, they spied the sturdy form of the thirteen dwarves, as well as the tall silhouette of the wizard Gandalf and both he and his cousin began to call out for the company to come to a stop. Bilbo's joy dissipated slightly, as they came closer and saw how the members of the company were eyeing them with caution and slight distrust, as well as disgruntlement, especially on their leader's part. The welcome was anything, but warm and for a moment Bilbo wondered if the dwarves would even allow them to accompany, especially after his declaration of imcompetence. "We..." Bilbo began warily and then he looked up at Balin and said, handing him the parchment: "We signed the contract." For a short moment, while the dwarf scribe scrutinized the paper, the forest clearing, which they were located in was bathed in complete, tense silence and he felt that his cousin's grip on his hand had tightened in nervousness.

Balin looked up and then slowly his lips formed into a small, warm smile, and Bilbo exhaled deeply, releasing the breath he did not even know he was holding. "Everything seems to be in order. Welcome Laurel Took and Bilbo Baggins to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield." He continued to gaze upon the warmer face of the scribe, when he suddenly heard the deep, throaty voice of the leader: "Get them a pony." Bilbo's alarm grew, he had never ridden a pony before and he believed that he was most allergic to any type of animal hair. "No, no, that won't be necessary. I am quite comfortable with walking, I have taken several walking holidays, even as far as..." He was interrupted in his rambling, when he felt a pair of hands, easily lifting him and depositing him on the warm back of a pony. He immediately grasped the reins in alarm, fearful to fall off.

It was only a few minutes later, that he questioned Laurel's absence, for he was riding alone. He looked around until he spied the form of his cousin, who seemed intensely uncomfortable judging by the glowing redness of her cheeks, sitting in front of a triumphant and smug-looking Kili, who had appearantly coerced her to ride with him. He saw that Kili was smirking triumphantly, while his brother was riding beside both him and Laurel looking slightly chagrined and his poor cousin was simply keeping her head down to conceal her embarrassment.

Before he could come to Laurel's rescue, he heard approaching horse hooves before he saw Thorin Oakenshield come to a stop before his nephews. He looked annoyed, as well as irritated and he exclaimed something in that guttural and hoarse language of theirs. Something, which caused Kili to look down properly admonished. "I am sure Mistress Baggins would prefer to ride with her husband." Thorin added impassively, while looking at the red-haired girl, whose head snapped up when hearing what he had just said. She looked at him wide-eyed and confused for a moment, before she looked to her side at Bilbo. He was sure that he looked just as shocked as her at the assumption that the dwarven leader had reached. Slowly, Laurel's features went from shocked to amused and he felt that same feeling seize him and he felt his lips widen into a smile. Laurel snorted softly and lowered her head once more, but this time it was to hide her amusement. Yet, Thorin had glimpsed it and with an irritated expression he asked her: "Does something amuse you, Mistress Baggins?" She looked up at him and continued to smile, before she shook her head and said: "Of course not." She then turned to Bilbo once more and in a loud voice, she announced, appearantly intent to dispell the company's misassumption: "You hear that, cousin. It appears we are married." He answered cockily: "Well, you could do worse." Her smile widened at that and she shook her head, before addressing the surprised leader of the company: "We are not married, Bilbo is my Cousin. I fear you have an old maid accompanying you on your quest." Bilbo chuckled softly at his cousin's description of herself, while Thorin turned his pony around and without another word returned to the front of the procision.

He should have felt alarm, when he saw the elated and encouraged expression that had taken residence of Fili and Kili's faces, when Laurel had dispelled the misassumption about her marital status. Yet he only felt anticipation, as he rode alongside his cousin into the world ahead.


	11. Verse of the Eremite

Chapter 10

_"Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art- Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night and watching, with eternal lids apart like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,"- Bright Star, John Keats_

Laurel watched in amazement as the dwarves proceeded to set up camp for the night. When she had dismounted Kili's pony, she had groaned at the soreness in her back, resulting from riding the entire day. It had been a long time, since she had last been on a horse. The last occurrence being two decades ago, when her mother had brought her to Belladonna Took. Since then, Laurel had never ridden and similarly as her cousin she had been most disconcerted, when thrust on the pony without prior practice. She should have been thankful, that Kili had taken it upon himself to have her ride with him, but she had been incredibly embarrassed by his forwardness and her shyness had rebelled against the closeness of their bodies. Yet Kili had not listened to any of her interjections and soon Laurel had acquiesced, especially after she had perceived her cousin's difficulty with riding on his own.

They had ridden the entire day and now the dwarves were sitting up camp. Bilbo was sitting on a log, adjacent to the clearing, where they would be resting for the night and he was currently enjoying a pipe in the company of the wise wizard Gandalf. She supposed she could go join them, but she had never liked the burnt and deeply herbal scent of pipe smoke and she was enthralled watching those creatures, which she had read so much about in her childhood and which she had always admired for the stories she had read about them. So she simply sat beneath a myrtle tree, which's shade protected her from the warmth of the late afternoon sun, that was setting and disappearing in the horizon behind her, with her knees drawn up and her chin resting on her kneecaps. She observed the individuals of the race, she had always raced off into the woods, surrounding Bag End in the hopes of finding. Her cousin had always been obsessed with elves and he had always looked for her kin, but she... She'd always held a fascination with these sturdy folk. If asked about the origin of this interest, she would have been unable to answer. It was simply something she had possessed, since the earliest days of her childhood. She could at times recall the fastidious ways her late mother would talk about dwarves. She recalled snippets of conversations between her mother and her father and she remembered that one of her father's companion in his last quest had been a dwarf and she could remember how disapproving her mother had been of this company. With amusement she thought of how her mother would react, if she could see Laurel in a company lead by the proudest of dwarves. Perhaps her fascination was a petty way to spite her mother, a mechanism of revenge that she had unconsciously adopted to avenge her mother's abandonment. But as she looked on at the working men with a curious expression, she knew that it was not so... That there was something profounder about her interest.

Not for the first time, Laurel compared the dwarves with the male Hobbits of the Shire and again it did not fail to amaze her, how different the two were. Even the tallest Hobbit man in the Shire was still about a head smaller than Thorin Oakenshield, who was almost unnaturally tall for a dwarf. Laurel remembered that after she had dismounted the pony, Thorin Oakenshield had come up to her and ordered her to fetch water. During that time, she had once more been reminded of how imposing their leader was, because she was so much smaller than him, she only came up to a little below his shoulders. She had grown flustered and intimidated at his proximity and at seeing his distinct height advantage and, without uttering a sound, she had quickly scampered off and gone to do her task. So averagely, dwarves were much taller than Hobbits and much stockier, which made them appear stronger and more battle-hardened. Like warriors, Laurel would often think in childlike awe and then she would shake her head in self-deprecation. She was no longer a starry-eyed infant and these men, while courageous no doubt, were not the idealistic and heroic motifs she had read about in her and Bilbo's books. It would not do to idealize them, especially since she would travel with them for a few months at the least. Yet as she watched the dwarves quickly and efficiently setting up camp, she could not help but feel respect for them, due to their efficiency. They were hard-working folk and their naturally weathered demeanor, opposed to the comfortable and soft appearance of Hobbits, hinted at their persevering dexterity. It wasn't that Hobbit men were useless and lazy. No, it would be unfair of her to say so, considering both Hamfast, who worked relentlessly in agriculture and Bilbo, who was most proficient and often helped her in her chores. But the dwarves... She knew that they worked much more and she wondered about the women of their race, if the men relied on the women to do homely chores.

She wanted to find out more about their race, and perhaps that was unwise, because she knew almost nothing about dwarven costumes and her curiosity could be easily misconstrued as nosiness and rudeness, especially if she asked them something that was highly personal and private. She wondered if they already thought her impolite and intrusive for overhearing their singing last night. She wondered if perhaps she had offended them with her questions and with the verbal tirade, that had sprung out of her, due to the guilt she had felt for misjudging them. She wondered if her comment of compassion had been obscene and insulting to Thorin Oakenshield. But most of all, she wondered if they had already formed an opinion of her and if so, what it was. She knew that most dwarves, especially the leader, thought themselves superior to both Bilbo and herself, due to the fact that they had limited knowledge of weaponry and surviving in the wild. She knew that it was not far-fetched to assume, that some dwarves, especially the more severe ones, even resented their presence and thought them to be only liabilities. But it was unfair to think about all dwarves in this manner, to judge all of the company based on the actions of some. Fili and Kili had been most kind with her, and she did find the energetic behavior of the two young dwarves quite amusing and endearing. They seemed to have welcomed her and were most kind with her. Bofur, the dwarf that had annoyed her during last night's council, due to his constant teasing of her cousin and the fact that he had caused Bilbo to faint, had redeemed himself in her eyes through his compassionate gesture of offering a ripped piece of clothing to her cousin, as handkerchief and through his openness toward both Bilbo and her.

But during the day's ride, she had overheard a conversation between Dwalin and Gloin, where the two had most extensively discussed the shortcomings of the elven race. Even now, she could still hear the offensive and cruel remarks of the bald, tattooed dwarf and the derogatory reference that Gloin had made of Elves as 'tree-shaggers'. She could still hear the malicious chuckling of the other dwarves, who had been in the vicinity and she recalled the amount of effort it had taken to hold herself back, when the only thing that she had truly wanted, was to have reprimanded both of the dwarves, who were offending her mother's race. Any contact that Laurel had had with her mother's kin and culture had seized after Elauriel had left her with Belladonna at Bag End, yet she had still found herself fiercely protective toward Elves and her heritage and had resented both of the elder dwarves quite strongly for the offense, they had unknowingly bestowed on her. She had not pondered on Gandalf's warning too greatly until now. There had been other things to occupy her mind, but as she reflected upon them now, she began to grow worried. She had personally witnessed the acerbic acrimony of the dwarves toward elves and she knew that they would condemn her for even being half an elf. She would have to be most cautious with her heritage, if she did not want the reserve of the dwarves toward her to turn to hostile ill will. She sadly meditated if the behavior of the dwarves, who had been kinder toward her would have been different if they knew the entire extent of her heritage.

She continued to study the dwarves and not surprisingly her eyes finally came to rest upon him. He was towering over the dwarves, who were just finishing with their tasks and with impassiveness he was studying his company, almost supervising them with silent authority radiating off him. He already resented her and her cousin most greatly, his prejudice thought them to be inconsequential and beneath him. She wondered how he would treat her if he knew that she was a part of the race he despised. He would hate her then, if he did not do so even now. And he would most certainly never allow her to continue on their quest, really, expulsion was the lightest of the punishments she could fear of him. She tipped back her head and closed her eyes, he felt resentment toward her, yet she felt... She felt that frustrating, enraging, elating familiarity that had taken a hold of her, when she had first seen him. She had spent some time pondering this queer feeling and it unnerved her, because she could not place it. She could not reason why this man, who she had never seen before in her life, did not seem like a stranger to her.

She was drawn out of her thoughts by Bombur's jovial voice announcing that dinner was ready. She rose and slowly made her way toward the fire, where the chubby dwarf was spooning stew into the bowls, that had been brought with the company. As Laurel waited for her turn, she took the opportunity to look around the camp. She was looking in Bilbo's and Gandalf's direction, the two individuals were already eating their stew and she would go to them and join their company. Yet her eyes were inadvertently drawn to Bifur, the dwarf that had most disconcerted her when she had first met him, not only due to the axe implanted in his skull, but also due to the fact that he could not communicate with her, as he did not speak Common and only spoke to other's with hand gestures. He kept to himself most of the time, similarly now, as he sat a little distance away from Bofur. From Kili she had found out that Bofur and Bombur were his cousins, but both of them were quite jovial and talkative fellows and no doubt did not revel in the reticent company of the silent dwarf. Appearance wise, Bifur was one of the more intimidating of the dwarves with his thick beard and his black and white hair and his hard eyes. As she saw the dwarf, who was sitting beside his cousin, yet was by himself, because Bofur was busy talking to Dori, she suddenly felt an urge and as Bombur handed her a bowl of stew, she asked him: "Bombur, does your cousin understand Common?" "Aye lass, he would understand what you say, but he just can't speak it, something to do with the axe in his head." She nodded her head and then she said: "Would you mind giving me another bowl? I'll bring it to your cousin." Bombur smiled at her and indulging acquiesced to her requests.

Ignoring the stares from the members of the company, who had grasped her intentions she moved toward the quiescent dwarf, who looked up at her, when she came to a stop before him. She did not allow herself to be discouraged by his impassive expression and with a small smile, she handed him the bowl, before sitting down on the ground beside him with the log he was sat on as a support for her back. She ignored the questioning looks of Bifur and all the other members of the company, who were now attentive to her perhaps peculiar choice of company. Looks that she could feel burning into her. Yet she did not flinch or show any outward acknowledgement of the incredulity her behavior was met with and simply ate her ration with carefreeness.

When she had finished her stew, she spied out of the corner of her eyes, that Bifur was looking at her in confusion, probably questioning why she had not sought out the company of her cousin or even of Fili and Kili. Feeling that she owed him an explanation, she shifted slightly and then looked up at him and said in a soft voice: "It is not necessary to talk in order to provide companionship to another." she smiled up at the dwarf and continued: "I must be quite honest, I enjoy your reticence. It is quite soothing, especially after spending the day in most energetic company. Also me and Bilbo always converse when in each other's company, so I find your silence quite refreshing." Seeing no acknowledgement to her words, she started to grow worried and with less confidence she stated: "We could establish gestures to converse. I know you already do, but I assume that this a dwarfish thing and I would not want to intrude on your culture." She did not look up and the camp had grown most eerily quiet, only adding to her internal agitation. She feared that she had offended Bifur and backtracking she said: "I could also just leave, if my company proves bothersome to you. If you do not wish for it." She raised her head and looked up at Bifur, who was looking contemplatively at her and for a minute, silence enveloped them both, before she saw the corner of his mouth curling up the slightest fraction of an inch and him shaking his head in encouragement, as if saying that her company was not bothersome to him. Her lips curled into a smile and she exhaled, before patting his hand lightly in a comradely gesture and turning around to stare at the flickering flames of the fire before her, enjoying her silent companion.

* * *

"Home is behind you, Bilbo. The world is ahead." Gandalf declared, while finishing his bowl of stew.

Both him and Gandalf had been enjoying each other's company, since they had decided to sat up camp for the night. They had conversed and smoked a late-afternoon pipe and Bilbo had been grateful for this facet of his routine to have been preserved. He had just finished his stew and put the bowl away, when he became aware of Laurel's absence and started to look around the camp for her familiar, feminine form. Greatest was his surprise, when he found her sitting beside the most intimidating of dwarves, Bofur's cousin. The one that could not speak Common and looked most disconcerting with the axe embedded in his head. Aghast, he wondered at his cousin's choice of Company and simply looked at her incredulously, as she spooned her stew, completely oblivious and unconcerned about the attention she had garnered.

Beside him he heard Gandalf's throaty chuckle and he turned his head to look at the wizard, when he indulgingy addressed him: "I believe you are not the only one, who is astonished at Laurel's choice of company for tonight." Bilbo furrowed his brows and looked at the rest of the dwarfish company to see what Gandalf had meant. The companionable conversation of the other dwarves had ceased and all were looking at the girl beside the mute and normally withdrawn dwarf, disbelievingly. And honestly, even Bilbo was questioning what his cousin was doing with the reticent, pensive dwarf, why she had not joined his company, the company of any other dwarf.

He only received an answer after Laurel had finished eating. He overheard his cousin's soft words to the dwarf and he immediately furrowed his brow and felt tender affection for his cousin's innocent, blind kindness and genuinety toward the dwarf and he then proceeded to gaze at the dwarf, hoping that he would not be rude to his cousin and turn her away. Yet as he saw the dwarf's stony features soften an inch, and the corner of his mouth twitching up the tiniest fraction of an inch, he became relieved. His cousin was kind to a fault, and only in rare cases was she hateful toward a person. The Hobbits of the Shire had at first been reserved and wary of her, due to her mixed heritage, but they had softened toward her after perceiving her altruistic spirit. Bilbo expected that the same phenomenon would repeat itself in the company of Thorin Oakenshield. She already seemed quite friendly with both Fili and Kili and as he looked at the members of the dwarven company, that all seemed to focus on the interactions between the Hobbit girl and the silent dwarf, he saw that both Bofur and Bombur fixed his cousin with small, grateful smirks at seeing her friendly handling of their cousin. His eyes succored every dwarf, until it came to rest upon the impassive, invulnerable leader of the company. He was surprised to see that Thorin was scrutinizing the interactions between his cousin and the dwarf, as well. He had not expected that Thorin would find interest in that. He grew even more startled, when he saw a slight softening to Thorin's steely gaze, as he looked at Laurel, who was beaming brightly and tenderly at something her dwarven companion had done and patted him on the hand gently.

Seeing Thorin's gaze at his cousin, Bilbo had the urge to avert his eyes in fear and Feeling that he had intruded in something so private and intimate. Yet when he returned his gaze at the invulnerable leader, he saw that his icy and almost angry glare had returned and wondered if perhaps he had not only just imagined it. This query plagued him even, after he had laid down beside the sleeping form of his Cousin later that night, as he looked up at the star-encrusted inky-black sky.


	12. Eulogy for my broken dreams

Chapter 11

_"In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed- But a waking dream of life and light hath left me broken-hearted." A Dream- Edgar Allan Poe_

The next night she was sitting with Fili, Kili and her cousin Bilbo around the fire. Feeling the flickering flames gently warm her face, she reflected on the occurrings of today with satisfaction and lethargic contentment. They had awoken before the first lights of dawn and they had ridden the whole day only resting for a short while at midday to have some lunch. While she still felt sore from the exertions of riding and was unnaturally tired, she felt that her physical exhaustion was revunerated by the landscape she had glimpsed today during the ride. The landscape of the Shire, while healthily beautiful with lush green grass, and endless rolling downs, did have the tendency to become monotone, especially for individuals that had lived their whole lives in this area. Yet, shortly after Gandalf had conspiratorially whispered to both her and Bilbo, that they were about to cross the borders of the Shire and enter into the rest of Middle Earth, the sights that greeted had left her enthralled. They had ridden across vast green ranges, which had streams with the bluest water she had ever glanced running through them and she had sighted alpine rock formations, which had likely existed since the beginning of time, as suggested by the weathered nature of their facade. Soon Laurel could no longer see the rolling hills and the little rivers of her homeland and the nature around her had completely shifted to dense forests with old, tattered and raggedy trees. Completely different from the lofty woods that had abutted Bag End with the pines and their ambrosial trunks and the sumptuous shrubs.

Yet that had not been the only thing that had delighted her today. Bofur had been kind and open toward her and especially toward Bilbo and Laurel had been jubilant to witness the tentative approaches to friendship between her cousin and the talkative dwarf. During their lunch break Laurel had once more sought out the company of Bifur, who had been more welcoming and less reserved toward her this time around. They had utilized the time and had proceeded to establish the hand gestures that they would use, when the need to converse and communicate was existent. She had been mindful to not use any gestures, that she had seen Bifur use previously when talking with the other dwarves, rationalizing that this was a branch, a part of dwarfish language and she did not believe that it was wise to intrude on the race's customs and culture this early on, especially with the majority of the company still being wary of her and Bilbo's presence and being withdrawn toward them. She did not wish for her attempts at establishing a friendship with Bifur, whose company she genuinely desired, to warrant any ill will and resentment on part of the other dwarves. So she had spent her day in the company of her cousin and Bofur, who in turn had spent the majority of his time by her cousin's side, discussing a vast number of topics with the sensible Hobbit man, ranging from the weather to the best best technique of smoking a pipe. She had ridden with Fili today and his brother, as well as Bifur after lunch, had ridden alongside them. She had found the contrast between the brothers' constant, enthusiastic conversation and Bifur's introspective and soothing quietude to be quite amiable, and when she had shared an amused and private glance with the weathered dwarf while Fili had been proudly boasting about his vast prowess with a sword, she knew that she cared for each one of these dwarves already and that she had become quite fond of them in the limited time interval, they had spent together.

Perhaps it was because she was traveling with them on her first adventure, which was simultaneously a quest that carried an immeasurable amount of importance with each and every dwarf of Thorin Oakenshield's Company. Perhaps it was because, she was almost painfully aware that the serene pacifism that she had experienced on their journey up until now was not bound to last, because she had read the accounts of what the adventurers and travelers in her books had encountered on the road. She knew of Orcs and Goblins and Bandits and she knew that with her lacking knowledge on how to use a weapon, she was painfully unprepared for this journey. Thinking about her self-inflicted vulnerability and her helplessness caused a pang of self-deprecation to course through her. She did not want to resemble those simpering maids she had read about with Bilbo, who needed to be saved from heinous beasts, because of their own uselessness and would usually stand in the heroes' ways. She had always abhorred those figures in the stories and their dependency on the glorious templar and Laurel had always imagined herself as the heroic and appraised crusader in the stories. She would ask Fili, Kili or Bifur for some instructions, so that she could at least defend herself and would not feel so helplessly vulnerable.

As the color of the sky above had transcended from the color of cornflowers to the deep shade of ink, the Company had decided to set up camp on the stark peak of a stony hill, which overlooked the vast nothingness of the ranges, which they would cross tomorrow. Laurel was shaken out of her thoughts by a sound that caused her insides to turn to the most algid ice, even though she had been so efficiently warmed by the fireplace before her. In the cold, crackling air of the frosty silver moon she could hear a howl, the sound of a broken creature howling with the sound of a thousand midnights down in a nebulous slough. A sound that she was sure chilled the bone marrow of even the most courageous of warriors, that froze the soul of wise, elderly men, caused the healthy, red faces of young individuals to blanche and made the children's head bury themselves deep under the bed covers at night. This was the sound, Laurel thought, this sound could only be made by a creature whose soul was lost forever.

"What was that?" She heard her cousin's alarmed voice and out of the corner of her eyes she observed how the previously slouching Bilbo had straightened in alarm. "Orcs." She heard Kili's ominous and monosyllabic response. Immediately her eyes grew wide as she recalled the description her book had offered of those cruel creatures: their bloodlust, their distorted, decomposing visages, the numerous scars, which deformed their already frightening demeanor. She and Bilbo looked at the two brothers simultaneously, as if beseeching Kili's words to be proven erroneous. Yet Fili only stated in a voice that was hoarse from smoking pipe weed: "Throat cutters. There will be a dozen of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them." Had fear not packed her, she would have perceived the amused glance that the brothers had shared before Kili continued in a voice that was suspiciously light for the topic, that they were discussing: "They strike in the wee small hours when everyone is asleep. Quick and quiet, no screams, just lots of blood." Hearing Kili's words, she rose in alarm and immediately slung her arms around her form in a defensive gesture, recalling the vivid descriptions her book had given her about Orc attacks.

She was looking at the brothers and Bilbo wide-eyed, while hoping that her trembling was a result of the algid night air and not of the fear the brothers' words had induced. Then they started to chuckle lowly at seeing her alarm and immediately her brow furrowed, as she questioned the source of their amusement. She flinched when closely behind her, she perceived Thorin's deep, stern voice: "You think that's funny?" She turned and looked up at the imposing form of their leader standing behind her and looking behind her with a stern and disciplinarian glare. "You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?" She saw Kili look down, no longer amused but now slightly ashamed. "We didn't mean anything by it." he muttered apologetically. "No, you didn't. You know nothing of the world." Thorin spat bitterly and strode off to stand at the edge of the peak, with his back to them, overlooking the night sky or the vast ranges below.

She would have been indignated at Thorin's harsh reprimanding of his nephews, had she not been annoyed at the brothers' practical joke. She knew that they endeavored to earn their uncle's pride and respect and that they idolised him, so Thorin treating them like children had no doubt hurt them, but at the moment she was engrossed by the tale, that Balin had started to recount.

_"Don't mind him, laddie. Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs. After the Dragon Smaug took Erebor, the dwarf King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy had got their first. Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs. And so that day the great battle of Azanulbizar took place. The Orcs were led by the most vile of their race: Azog, the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. And the Pale Orc began his sworn Task by... Beheading the king. Thrain, Thorin's father went mad with grief and then missing. Taken prisoner, killed... We did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us._

_That is when I saw him. A young dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc. He stood alone against this most terrible foe. His armor went, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield. Azog, the Defiler learnt that day that the line of Durin would not so easily be broken. Our Forces rallied and drove our enemies back. They had been defeated. But there was no feast, nor song that night for our dead were beyond the count of grief. Wee few had survived. And as I saw him overlooking the mass of dead with his oaken shield, I thought to myself: There is one I could follow, there is one I could call king."_

While Balin had been recounting his tale, Laurel recalled images... images she had dreamt about, for she knew about this battle, eventhough until now she had never thought that it was real. She had always thought it a dream. She began recalling visions of dark nights, that were long past. She began recalling her dreams. She remembered how she had dreamt of the man in her dreams: Thorin. He had looked younger in her dreams. His hair had been the color of ebony and did not have those grey streaks running through it, that spoke of his worldliness. She could recall his incredulous, sweat-drenched and exhausted face, which was contorted by an expression of grief, and wrath and in her ears echoed his heart-broken scream, as he saw Azog holding his grandfather's head triumphantly, like a trophy. She could recall him fighting against the pale Orc, intent on avenging his grandfather and subsequently his father. He saw Thorin fighting Azog, seemingly deranged by fury, holding no weapon, except that oaken shield. He saw Thorin amputating Azog's arm and the orcish filth, cradling his stump with a wounded expression. Then she recalled his screams "Du Bekar! Du Bekar!" as he lead his warriors toward the enemy legion. As he ran toward certain doom, toward hideous creatures that others would not have met so fearlessly. Then she saw him wounded, yet still proud standing over his fallen and exhausted army, looking at the devastation below him with silent authority and confidence, the sun rising behind him like a glorious halo.

She felt the air leave her and she felt disbelief ensnaring her. It was him! It was him! Thorin Oakenshield was the man she had dreamt about for so long. She had expected to feel undiluted joy at having found the person, whom she had thought so brave, whom she had looked up to for so long, but the feeling that was most prominent within her at the time was disbelief and numbness. She did not know what to feel. She supposed that she should have felt disappointment, that the man whom she disapproved of due to his pride and his arrogance was the same man she had so longed to meet. That she should resent his callousness and indifference toward her and the derisiveness he demonstrated at her. Yet the only thing she felt was disbelief and... dread. Dread, because he was such an angry man. Dread, because she knew that he thought her beneath him, and thought her to be a little, vulnerable, naive Hobbit girl from the Shire. She should feel dread, because... he would hate her if he knew of her parentage and she could never be honest with him.

"What happened to Azog?", she heard Bilbo ask and Thorin strode over to where Balin, Bilbo, Fili, Kili and her were assembled and with his eyes fixed on the fire he said: "He slunk back to that hole from whence he came. That filth died of his wounds a long time ago." And then his stormy eyes came to rest upon her and she immediately felt exposed, because she knew that she was looking at him and if he only cared enough he would have been able to distinguish all of her thoughts, all of the emotions that plagued her at the moment from the glance she was fixing him with. He held her look and once more she felt that his eyes had the power to penetrate her soul.

She felt her lips part slightly and her brows furrow as she continued to look at him, thinking about all those times when she had thought about the man in her dreams, of how she had longed for him. And he... He was looking at her impassively once more and no matter how long she scrutinized him, she could not make out anything, any of his thoughts, he was completely concealed from her. Eventually looking into his piercing eyes became too much for her and she averted her gaze to the side, before quickly moving off, out of his line of sight, trying to escape from him.

So great was her inner turmoil, that she did not ponder on the knowing and concerned look that had passed between Gandalf and Balin, when Thorin had declared Azog dead.


	13. Ballad of a Summer

Chapter 12

_"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate."- Sonnet 18, William Shakespeare_

He was passing a shaky hand over his sweat-drenched forehead. He had once more dreamt about his grandfather and Erebor. It was still the early hours of morning and the sun had just started to rise in the east and the deep blue shade of the night sky was retreating to give way to agrey pallor, with a slight tinge of red. None of the others in his company were awake, but him and Nori, who had taken the last watch for the night and he used this time to reflect on his reasons for this quest, for reclaiming Erebor. He remembered the day of Smaug's invasion and he thought that he wished to avenge this day, which had not only caused him to lose all that had been promised to him, all that he had prepared for his entire childhood, but symbolized the beginning of the downward spiral that his life had become, the beginning of the monotonous, wrath-filled, bitter days that constituted his being. No, he liked to believe that if everything he had lost had been material, that he would have been able to overcome this virulence that seemed to rule him. He liked to believe that he had grown to become such a bitter and angry man, because Smaug's siege on Erebor symbolized his grandfather's death and all the plights Thorin and his people had had to undergo until now. That the taking of Erebor had put a curse of misfortune on the line of Durin and their subjects.

Oh Erebor! He felt longing rise within his chest only at the mention of his old halls. He could still recall the vastness and the immensity of the fortress. He liked to believe that he was undertaking this quest not only, because of his desires, but because of his people. Because he longed to give them a home, to enable them to once more be a part of that proud and strong kingdom that had been Erebor. He wanted to believe that he was doing this, so that his once mighty people that had been brought so cruelly low could reclaim their home and could revert to those days of peace and plenty that Thorin had lived through in his childhood. That he wanted to provide a home to his subjects, whom he felt he owed so much due to his incapability to protect Erebor and fend off Smaug on that fateful day and that he no longer wanted his people to wander Middle Earth like a pack of displaced, homeless hounds, like vagabonds, when he himself had experienced their wealth and had reveled in it. He wanted to believe that he undertook this quest, so that his eldest nephew, so that Fili, who he had been teaching and grooming to be a just and valiant leader, similarly to the way Thror had done with him in his youth, so that his nephew, who already displayed characteristics needed in a leader, could have a worthy hall to reign over, so that he could look forward to his inheritance, so that the line of Durin once more recovered their due. He liked to believe that he was doing this because it had been his grandfather's and then his father's dream, that the two patriarchal figures in his life had longed to see their people reinstated in Erebor and receiving what was rightfully theirs. That he was doing this, because he had failed both his grandfather and his father, when he had been unable to prevent their death, or who knew what fate his father had suffered, under the hand of that orcish filth. That he had been unable to stop that vile, heinous creature before he had taken them from him. He wanted to believe that this quest was amends for his shortcomings toward both Thror and Thrain. He wanted to believe that he was doing this for more than the gold he knew lay in Erebor.

He refused to believe that his dreams of the mountains of riches and gold that he knew inhabited each and every hall in Erebor had anything to do with why he was undertaking this quest. He refused to believe that the streams of gold that ran through the stone of Erebor was the reason why he felt the need to go reclaim his halls. That he was only doing this, going on this quest because he longed, he wanted, he needed to be king under the mountain. He refused that this whole undertaking had only sprung out of his want for power and for his kingdom and for the gold he could still vividly paint before his mind's eyes and which he had dreamt about for so long. He refused to believe that this quest was only a means to satisfy his avarice. And he was a stubborn dwarf. He refused to believe that while he knew of the menace of Smaug and of the Devastation he could cause and he was still leading this company... His company knowingly to this place, where that beast no doubt still festered. He refused to believe that he knew that his company of thirteen tradesmen, tinkers, toymaker and two little, weak Hobbits was ill-equipped to go on this quest, since not even the entirety of the royal guard, the best warriors of Erebor had been able to stop Smaug that day. He refused to believe that he was leading this Company of men, who had so faithfully come forth when he had called upon them, only because he still dreamt of the gold in Erebor's halls. Because there would be too much connotation in that belief. Because it would have meant that he had become too much like his grandfather... Not the man, who had taught him during his youth all there was to know about a just and fair leader, not the man whom he had thought to be the best king there had ever been, the man he had idolized... No he would have become too much like the Thror he had seen in the days leading up to that firedrake's invasion. The man, who had spent uncountable hours in Erebor's main treasure hall, wandering between the vast mountains of precious, shiny rocks with a crazed and delusional look on his face. Thorin refused to believe that he was likely to become sick, that the same disease that had festered and fertilized within Thror might also slumber within him. He did not believe that he could be corrupted like his grandfather had been, that he could blinded by his love of gold and that he could be ensnared by the sickness that had trapped Thror, because he knew that where sickness presided only bad things could follow.

He refused to believe that he was leading this Company of men, that had last night after Balin's tale, looked upon him with such awe and trust, that he was willing to lead these men into certain death, the same men, who had given their loyalty and utter faith to him so trustfully. He refused to believe that he was willing to risk the lives of his nephews, the only family that he had left and whom he valued, despite their mischief and their sometimes youthful, immature behavior. He refused to believe that he was willing to risk the life of the last of his kin, his predecessor simply for his want of gold. That he was willing to risk the life of his oldest friends, of Balin and Dwalin, the former who had been his tutor, his companion for the majority of his life. He did want to think that he was willing to risk the lives of all of these men for his avarice. That he was leading them to Smaug for reasons that were not completely honorable. He did not want to think that he was leading them to Smaug. That he was leading _her_ to the beast.

He blinked his eyes as that last, particular train of thought assailed his mind and he looked up and his eyes were drawn to that distinct shock of bright red hair. He saw that she had just woken up and was sat up with that wild mass of untamable curls like a mane around her head and was owlishly blinking the sleep out of her eyes. He did not know what caused him to watch her more than he did with the others when he found himself alone, so transfixedly. He watched her as she looked down to her right at the still sleeping burglar, who he now knew was her cousin, yet whom he still thought to be almost disconcertingly close to each other. He watched her as she smiled beatifically and tenderly down at the man, who he had gathered was her best friend and how she rubbed the burglar's arm to wake him.

As he watched the caring interactions of the girl and the Halfling, he questioned how it would feel to have her soft and delicate fingers tenderly caressing his skin like the lighest and warmest of summer breezes; how it would feel to awaken to that, to her loving smile.

He shook his head and stood up in frustration at the direction his thoughts had taken. In an attempt to dispel these most disconcerting thoughts, he quickly moved away from his previous sleeping place, away from where he could continue watching her as she teased her cousin for his disheveled appearance, and proceeded to wake his company. He should find her an inconsequential creature, who was so beneath him that she warranted no other thought than her use for this quest. He should have established her as a naive, suburban young Hobbit girl from the Shire, who would no doubt be more trouble to him and his company than she was worth. But... Unwillingly, he had found her to be more than that... To be... Interesting... Surprising. What he could have easily construed as naivety was now viewed by him and he suspected also by most members of his company, as... Innocence, kindness, gentility.

Since Thorin had lost the mountain and had been forced to take work, wherever he could find it, he had quickly learned that all people had a purpose and that kindness, altruism only sprung from that need, was only a tool in the selfish pursuit of their self-crafted goals. He had quickly dispelled any beliefs in genuine kindness and selflessness. This had been another thing that had caused him to become even more embittered. But she... What purpose did she have to come on this quest? Of course, there was the gold and the profit, but that had not been of interest to her the night of the council. He doubted that she had been thinking about the gold both her and her cousin would receive after they had reclaimed Erebor, when she had stood before him and his company and had asked for forgiveness for the fact that she and her cousin had initially been reluctant joining them on their quest. When she had told him that what he had seen that night, as she had stood before him like a condemned prisoner was not pity, and she had looked up at him through her thick, long lashes and with her eyes shining she had told him that she felt compassion toward him. He had never pondered on the difference between compassion and pity, previously he would have thought them to be the same, yet now... He was no longer so sure.

What reason, what concealed and under-handed selfishness had she had, when she had gone up to the contemplative and reticent Bifur, whom he had expected to be the last person she would have ever talked with or sought out? When she had courageously offered her company and her friendship to the silent dwarf, when she had commended him on his silence and had apparently longed for it? What purpose had she had when she had smiled so brightly and genuinely that for a second Thorin had thought that she had rivaled the sun in its splendor and he had felt her joy, when Bifur had accepted her company? What reason had she had to look at him last night with disbelief and shock and... Another emotion that had caused the warmth in his chest, the sensation he now attributed to her to become almost unbearable in its intensity? What reason had she had to look at him the way she had looked at him last night, with self-deprecation, sadness and if he had to categorize it, something akin to beseeching?

Balin had just walked off in the direction of the camp fire, when he saw out of the corner of his eyes, that his still drowsy nephews had joined the company of the girl and the not completely lucid burglar, who sat by her side and smoked his early morning pipe. He saw how she smiled warmly and welcoming at them and they sat down beside the girl and Fili handed her a bowl of breakfast, which she thankfully accepted before attentively listening to something his youngest nephew was telling her. He felt resentment rise within him. Resentment at the fact, that the girl was proving to be a distraction to his nephews that she had hindered their entire attention being focused on the purpose of their quest and that his nephews' little attraction was distracting them. He was not blind to the lingering looks and touches of his nephews and to the attention they paid to the girl's well-being, and he knew what they meant.

It was not unusual for younger dwarves to be attracted to feminine members of other races, especially because that was one thing that dwarven women lacked. They lacked femininity and it was not unheard of, that they would be mistaken for men by non-dwarfish individuals. He expected her beauty to be the first thing that had ensnared his nephews' attentions. Her softness, which was so opposed to the hard and stony features of dwarfish women and her unmistakable femininity and delicateness. If that had been the only thing, Thorin would not have spent time pondering, worrying over his nephews' newest attraction, because during their lives he knew that his nephews thought female companionship to be of the biggest value. Yet in this case two things worried him, one was that both his nephews seemed enthralled by the same girl and he knew that out of this affair at least one of them would be hurt. The second thing was that he had seen the admiration in his nephews' eyes, aimed at her kindness and he feared that the same gentility that left him... Confused was what he would call it, wanted call it... Had deepened the relationship between the three of them. And he resented the girl because of that. Because she proved to be a distraction and she was proving to cause more trouble than he knew she would ultimately be able to solve.

Yet as he watched Kill pass a tender hand along the girl's cheekbones, the same biting feeling and causticity arose, that he had experienced when he had seen both her and the Halfling together, that he had experienced when he had thought her to be married; and he was not sure if this could be attributed to his resentment toward the girl.

* * *

Gandalf turned his back on the proud and arrogant expression of the dwarf king and, with resentment and annoyance coursing through him, he stalked away from the stubborn dwarf king. His gait hinting at fierceness, he strode past a puzzled Laurel and he decided to put as much distance between himself and the dwarves' camp as possible, as he needed to be alone for the moment, especially as he had a premonition, a caustic feeling concerning the choice of shelter that Thorin Oakenshield had found suitable for the night. He knew that there was something wrong about the place and that tonight would not carry the same pacifistic and mellow undertone, as the previous they'd had the fortune of experiencing.

He had exploited that ill feeling and had suggested to Thorin Oakenshield that they seek the council and advice of Lord Elrond and would use the opportunity and the hospitality the elves of the Valley of Imlandris would offer them to rest and recover from the exhaustion from the first leg of this journey.

But Thorin Oakenshield had decided that he would none of that. His resentment, his prejudice and hate toward the elvish race had reared its ugly head and had left the future King under the mountain blind to the needs of his company and to the benefits that seeking out the elves could have for them. Thorin resented Thranduil so much for his actions that day during Smaug's siege that he believed all elves to be selfish and unhelpful and intent to stop him. No, Thorin Oakenshield would never willingly seek out the help of a member of the elvish race, eventhough Gandalf was most assured that only Lord Elrond would be able to find the hidden clue about Erebor's secret entrance in the map. But Thorin despised elves with an intensity that was destructive and that hindered him from achieving the best for himself.

And then Gandalf thought about Laurel. He had spent many years on Middle Earth and he prided himself on being wiser than a few. Perhaps others had not perceived it, but he had seen the way that the red-haired girl and the invulnerable king under the mountain had regarded each other last night and before that he had spied the numerous times that Thorin's eyes had been on Belladonna Took's niece, at perhaps a frequency that even Thorin was unconscious to. He thought about the disastrous effects it would have not only on Laurel, but also on Thorin if it was found that Laurel was a half-elf. What would Thorin think if he knew that this girl was a member of the race he so despised?

"Where are you going, Gandalf?" Bilbo asked him as he strode past both him and Balin, who were following the wizard with their eyes. "To seek out the company of the only person with some sense here." he huffed. Bilbo looked contemplatively at that and asked with curiosity: "Who would that be?" "Myself, Master Baggins!"

* * *

She was crouching down beside Bombur and looked on as the chubby, red-haired dwarf proceeded to fill the bowls with the stew he had cooked for the night. "When do you think Gandalf will come back?", her Cousin asked with concern tinging his words and he was wringing his hands nervously. After Gandalf had left their company agitated and infuriated a few hours back she had been most disconcerted and had felt grieved, because due to her elvish hearing she had been able to make out the reason for Thorin and Gandalf's disagreement. Yet she had not said anything and she had been withdrawn and reserved, even when her cousin had questioned her quiet behaviour she had simply waved him off. Yet she felt similarly alarmed that night had long ago fallen and Gandalf still persisted in being gone.

"He's a wizard, he goes off at times and there is nothing you can do about it. Take these to the lads, will you burglar?" Bofur said in an attempt to dispelled Bilbo's concern for the elderly, wise man and handed him two bowls with stew to take to both Fili and Kili, who were also not present in the camp, because they had been charged with watching over the ponies. Eventhough alarm was still prominent in his features, Bilbo acquiesced to the demands and Laurel watched him as he disappeared in the prescient woods. She felt Bombur also handing her a bowl of stew and with a small smile and a nod at something behind her right shoulder, he stated: "Will you take Thorin's dinner to him, lass?" She licked her lips nervously at the request, but wishing to be of some use, she nodded her head and made her way to the brooding dwarven king.

To be of use. She would be taking herself for a fool, if she insisted that this was the only reason for her acquiescing to Bombur's request. Since she had found out that Thorin was the same man she had been dreaming about for almost two decades now, her curiosity toward the leader of the company had increased and she longed to find more about him, if she had been right in her assessment of him, as the most courageous of men, filled with integrity. She thought she was, especially from what she had witnessed, the respect his company showed toward him, their loyalty to him. She also wished to know, why he despised elves so much. She actually wished to know why all dwarves did so, but in his case, she was especially curious.

She handed him his dinner with an unsure smile on her face and then he looked up at her, when she did not leave as he had expected but continued to stand before him, pondering on how she could phrase what she so wanted to ask him. Wringing her hands in a similar way as Bilbo, she said in a thin voice: "I could not help, but overhear your and Gandalf's conversation." She did not allow herself to be deterred or discouraged by his scoff at her words and raising her head in confidence she asked him: "Why do you not wish to go to Rivendell?" He glared at her indignantly and asked her: "Did Gandalf put you up to this, girl?" She did not flinch, having expected this exact reaction from him and she felt her obstinacy and fiery spirit return within her and she was determined to not leave without an answer to her question: "No, he did not. I do not require of Gandalf's requests to act, to question. I simply wish to know why you would deny your company shelter and accommodations, that are not the road, simply because the place that offers them is Rivendell." He looked at her impassively, but still with a glare and spat in a low tone: "It would do you well to not question my decisions. What assistance could elves offer me after their king so _valiantly_ refused to help us when we were exiled from Erebor. When the dwarves needed elvish help none come, and none has come ever since." She looked disbelievingly at that and questioned the truth in his words, yet what reason would he have to be dishonest with her? She could not truly believe that he had made up what little explanation he had given to her and it would explain the resentment of the company towards elves.

Yet she still shook her head and stared at Thorin Oakenshield in disbelief. From what she had gathered he had only been wronged by a single individual, not by an entire race, he had generalized the elves and she asked him the question that now weighed heavily on her, because she knew that if they found out about her parentage they would condemn her and now she was aware that the reason would be most unjustified, because she had not abandoned them, she wouldn't have ever thought about it: "Would you truly judge an entire race, condemn innocents for the mistakes, the crimes of one individual?" Had she not been so absorbed by her question and her disbelief at the source of his prejudice, she would have delighted herself in the fact that Thorin, whom she thought nothing could disconcert, had furrowed his brows in response to her question, as if it was the first time this had been brought up to him and for a fraction of a second his eyes had widened in confusion and he had looked taken aback. But then his mask of impassiveness and superiority returned and effectively dismissing her, he said: "I do not expect you to understand anything, girl. You know nothing of the world beyond your Hobbit hole." She averted her gaze then and with indignation at Thorin Oakenshield and his arrogance, she pondered whether to continue this quite pointless discussion or to depart and seek out the much more agreeable company of Bifur. Yet before she could reach a decision, she heard Thorin state warningly: "Stay away from my nephews. You do them no favor by providing them with a distraction." She looked up at him and furrowed her brow at his solemnity. "They have more important things to think about than you." She felt a pang of hurt at his words and then she spat bitterly: "I simply offer them my friendship. Forgive me if that offends you." Without allowing him to respond to her words, she whirled around and took off in the direction she had seen her cousin depart to previously. Pained at Thorin's callousness and admonishing of her.


	14. Sonnet of Implacable Sweetness

Chapter 13

_"If each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine"- If you forget me Pablo Neruda_

In the inky blackness of the night, he moved toward the familiar, sturdy silhouettes of Fili and Kili, who were stood impassively staring at something in the distance. He moved toward them and proceeded to hand them the bowls of stew, which they did not take and them taking note of his arrival said in a low voice: "We were supposed to look after the ponies, but we have encountered a problem. We were supposed to look after sixteen ponies, but we encounter now only fourteen. Daisy and Bungo have gone missing."

He walked after them, as the two brothers strode through the clearing that the company had chosen for their horses to rest in, no doubt wanting recount the present animals, in hopes that they had only made a mistake. But as Bilbo watched the somber faces of the two young dwarves, which did not lighten in relief, as he had hoped he said: "Oh dear. It would be best if we tell Thorin." And he immediately bristled against the idea, as he imagined the indignation of the intimidating elder dwarf. Bilbo would never admit this, because he was quite wary of Thorin and he knew that he would most likely never earn the respect and friendship of this bitter dwarf, who seemed to resent his presence every time Thorin looked at him. He knew that Thorin would most likely admonish the Hobbit more severely than his nephews thankful for a reason to dispel his unveiled contempt at the smaller man.

"No, no. It would not be wise to worry uncle with these inconsequential matters." Fili said, waving his right hand in a dismissive gesture and Bilbo knew that Fili was also fearful of his uncle's reaction to their incompetence. Before Bilbo could question the two dwarves on their proceeding, he was interrupted by the sound of heavy, sonorous footfalls, which shattered the almost idyllically quiet nature of the evening. He felt the forest floor tremble beneath him, as if in warning of an approaching menace. The next thing he saw was a titanic, lumpy shape moving through the night and Bilbo scrambled in order to conceal itself from this intruder, which he was not familiar with. Yet he saw that the brothers, concealed by the greenery of the forest had made to move after the monster and Bilbo not wishing to be left alone, lest he cross path with monsters of the similar capacity that he had just seen, went after them, his grips on the bowls he had clutched having tightened greatly.

Soon, he could see that the inky darkness of the forest was dispelled by a fire in the distance and he saw the great, stocky individual, who he could now discern more closely and how it almost seemed to be made of Stone, due to the ashen and amour-like quality of its skin. He crouched down beside the brothers, who hid from sight behind a fallen log and they whispered to him: "Mountain Trolls." Bilbo supposed that he had read about them before in his books, for the name was not foreign to him. He could now recall that the book had spoken of their uncouthness and their putrid scent and that it had mentioned something, a detail about sunlight, but he did not pay any mind to that, as he heard Fili say: "You have to rescue the ponies. The trolls are stupid, slow and sluggish. And you are so small, you could most definitely pass undetected." Fili took the bowl from his hand and his brother soon did the same, agreeing with Fili's plan. He felt alarm and fear rise in him, as the brother's proceeded to push him toward the troll's camp assuring him that they would be right behind him if anything were to happen to him and to hoot twice like a brown owl and once like a barn owl, if he needed their assistance.

Bilbo did not even have enough time to ponder the fact that he had no idea what distinguished the sound of a barn owl from that of a brown owl, when he was quite literally thrust into this task. He remembered the size of the troll he had seen and the apparent power and strength when he had simply walked normally and Bilbo knew that his fragile body would not be able to withstand the pressure if a troll were to sit upon him or step on him. He was prepared to decline the brothers' demands, when he turned around to find himself quite abandoned by the dwarves, as they had already left.

Bilbo straightened his waistcoat and with silent steps he approached the company of the three trolls, who were currently having a conversation, or discussion about their dinner. Immediately, the foul scent of the trolls assailed his nostrils and Bilbo had to stop himself from gagging at the intensity of the foulness. Yet despite his nausea, he did feel a determination and head-strength that he felt even Laurel would envy. Perhaps the brothers were right and he could pass undetected if he was simply stealthy and exploited those creatures' apparent stupidity. Perhaps with his success in this task, he could thus earn the respect of the company of dwarves, whom he still felt mocked him and were unsure about him. Perhaps he could dispel the discomfort every interaction with the dwarves held for him. Perhaps, and this was a big if, he could even earn the grudging appreciation of Thorin Oakenshield. He did not have time to ask himself why he was even minding the dwarves' and Thorin Oakenshield's opinion of him before, he started to hatch a possible escape strategy for him and the four ponies.

On his knees, he quietly moved to the enclosure the ponies were located in to prevent their escape, yet this was most alarmingly close to where the three trolls were sat. Yet they were so busy discussing food, that Bilbo was encouraged that perhaps he could do this. He hushed the ponies that neighed at his sight and he began to try and loosen the rope that acted as a barrier for the ponies. Yet the coarse material did not give out and the knot was too tightly made, which again left him feeling that this rescue mission would prove without bounty. Then he glimpsed the metallic blade, as it reflected the moon's light, when one of the trolls moved, into Bilbo's eyes and he moved closer to the distracted troll wanting to snatch his knife and use it to cut the rope.

But what happened next caused dread and fear to spread like icy water in his veins, as the trolls calloused, sweaty hands grabbed him and he lifted Bilbo to his face and sneezed upon him. He cringed in disgust as he felt himself covered with the slimy, putrid, sticky substance and he looked upon the surprised faces of the trolls to see that he had been captured. The troll that had grasped him looked at him in alarm, believing that Bilbo had come out of his posterior and he threw Bilbo to the side, almost in disgust. He landed roughly, but before he could attempt to leave this threatening situation one of the other two trolls had their cooking knife trained at him and he asked in a coarse and uncultured sounding voice: "What are we then? An oversized squirrel?" "I am a burglar... I mean a Hobbit." Bilbo answered quickly eyeing the blade that was closer to him than he felt comfortable with.

"A burglarhobbit? Can we cook him?" The troll asked in menacing curiosity and then he saw how the one that had thrown him to the ground previously moved and attempted to once more grasp him, while saying with a demonic smile: "We can try." With an agility that he did not know he possessed he moved away from the troll's grubby hands and the implications of the situation he now found himself in were all but forgotten to him, as he felt adrenaline propel him and he focused on escaping from the dumb creatures that wanted to eat him.

It did not matter, that he had been almost quick enough to leave, because as he escaped from the circle that the three trolls had pushed him in, his hopes were cut disappointingly short, as he felt one of the troll's grimy hands grab him at his ankles and he was now swung upside down, only supported from falling and hanging in mid-air by the troll's grasp. Then he heard a grunt coming from the shrubbery to his left and he shifted his body to see Kili emerging from the bushes and cutting down the troll at his right, who responded to the inflicted injury by squealing loudly and falling to the ground wounded. He felt relief at seeing Kili and was thankful that the brothers had apparently been sincere in what they had promised him. "Drop him!" Kili demanded loudly and authoritatively off the trolls, who simply looked at the dark-haired dwarf, whose lips were twisted in a cocky smile after his victory against one of the trolls. The troll holding him simply sneered, exposing his rotting, yellow teeth, before he swung Bilbo back and onto Kili and they both went down to the ground from the impact, just when all the remaining twelve dwarves of Thorin Oakenshield's Company emerged and proceeded to fight the trolls loudly.

Looking at the fray and the tumult of fighting dwarves and bumbling trolls, Bilbo knew that he would only be in the way if he remained in the clearing and so he crouched down once more and moved off in the direction of the ponies, still intent to carry out the task the Brothers had assigned him.

Suddenly, he felt himself be once more grabbed by those calloused hands, which he had become to dread and then he felt the trolls hold him extended by his four limbs and he looked at the Company of dwarves, with Thorin at the forefront, panting and looking incredulously and grudgingly at the situation their highly-recommended burglar had gotten himself into once more.

"Lay down your arms or we'll rip his off." The chubbiest and tallest of the trolls said in his hoarse voice and Bilbo looked at Thorin and his dwarves with what he could only described as beseeching and sorrow- beseeching that Thorin would decide that his burglar was of enough importance to warrant the capture that was bound to follow and sorrow at his incompetence and his realization of how out of his depth he truly was. Thorin cocked his head and looked at Bilbo with what could only be described as intense frustration and contempt before he sneered and threw down his swords. The others soon followed their leader's actions.

* * *

He shook his head, as he felt indignation course through him and he looked to the side at the Halfling, who was lying in a burlap sack like all of them, except the ones that were currently tied to a spit over the camp fire of the trolls, being roasted. He made sure to glare at the Hobbit, who surely felt the extents of his contempt and anger as he proceeded to squirm to the side, attempting to get away from the dwarves, who were all annoyed at the halfling.

Yet Thorin was not annoyed. He was furious and his resentment at the Halfling had only risen at this further proof of his incompetence as a burglar. How could he hope to outsmart Smaug, if he was not stealthy enough to pass by undetected by these stupid and bumbling creatures, that were trolls. He felt intense embarrassment at his imprisonment, had he not acquiesced to the trolls' demands, he and his Company would have surely escaped, but as he had looked up at the halfling's beseeching face he had not been able to continue with the fight and allow him to be torn apart. He did not know what had caused him to feel pity for the Hobbit and to not let him suffer the consequences of his bumbling incompetence, but it was as if all the senses in his body had rebelled against the action, and he had grudgingly laid down his sword and spared the Halfling this untimely demise.

But this did not stop Thorin from being furious at the Halfling, who had overestimated his capabilities and had joined this quest and now proved himself to be only a burden and Thorin did for the first moment fear that perhaps their quest was cut short and that their end was approaching. It would be a most humiliating way to die, not at all befitting of him. Battle-hardened warriors, like him and Dwalin, were not as sensitive and fearful of death as others, since in the battle-field they knew that death was a constant company to them. They had experienced near-death numerous times during battles and so were not as alarmed by it. Dying in battle was honorable, they would receive the status of a martyr, and that was the greatest honour Thorin could think of. But dying like this, stripped of his armor, only in his underclothes, constrained by a burlap sack and awaiting to be cooked and eaten by these huge, slightly disoriented morons was intensely humiliating to him and he felt his resentment toward the halfling only strengthen.

As he watched the trolls, who were currently discussing cooking techniques, he felt defeat slowly taking a hold of him. But then, suddenly, he felt small, delicate hands tenderly brush his long hair aside and tug at the fastening of the sack. Somehow he knew who it was without turning around and, choosing to ignore the burning sensation that her hands brushing his hair, touching the skin of his nape and her proximity had kindled within him, he lowly, mindful of not making the trolls aware of her presence, asked: "What are you doing here?" "What do you think?", she whispered in his ear and he felt her warm breath on the shell of his ear. In response, his breathing quickened and came in quick, shallow pants, his heart raced, sensastions that at this moment he had attributed to agitation and annoyance at the girl, unable... _unwilling_... to find another explanation for his body's response to her. He shifted his head slightly and glared at her profile: "You have to leave." She looked up from the knot and hissed: "I am trying to help you, you ungrateful grump!" His nostrils flared at her insult and contemptuously he said: "I don't need your help!" She scoffed slightly and shook her head and smirked at him: "Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves." He felt annoyance at her being here, but through this he felt concern and at the moment this sensation was too strong to question, to question why the Girl had even invoked this worry and he simply needed her to leave. He did not want to see her awaiting her demise like the rest of his men, he could not. "Laurel, do as I say." At his use of her given name, she looked up at him and blinked. Before she could reply, however he saw her being snatched up by a large fist, that had previously grabbed her cousin in the same manner and he heard her alarm, as she struggled to free herself off her captor.

Fueled by the sight of her distress and the certainty of what was to come next, he started to struggle against his constraints, determinedly, desperately, and the vehemence with which he did this only increased, as it was fueled by her soft grunts of frustrations. He heard Kili and Bilbo exclaim her name and felt the shuffling of his nephew before him, as he too seemed determined to free himself and help the girl.

"Are ya also a flubberblubberhobbit?" He saw that for a second, Laurel had stopped struggling against the troll's hold and had looked up at him in confusion at what he had asked her. Before she could answer him, another troll simply said: "Doesn't matter what she is, as long as we can eat her." Her eyes grew wide and she startled to struggle in earnest now, mindful of her self-preservation. The troll that was holding her threw her to the side and she landed roughly, before pushing herself up. Her shoulder slumped in defeat, as she saw that their was no way to escape the trolls, as they had her surrounded. One of the trolls threw a burlap sack at her and said: "Go on then. Take off your clothes and lie them on the pile over by that tree and get in the sack." She clutched the sack and looked at the trolls wide-eyed at their request and Thorin immediately grew angry that they would violate her dignity in this manner. Sensing her hesitation, the troll sneered: "Do it, or we will eat you whole."

He knew that he should have averted his eyes from the display before him, it would have been the honorable thing to do. But it was as if his eyes were glued on her form, as if he needed to gaze upon her and was powerless against his body's demands. He watched her as she revealed inch per inch of her ivory, creamy skin and as she had shed off her clothes and stood before him only in her underclothes, he felt his heart race in his chest, his breathing quicken and arousal rising within him. He looked on as she shed her clothes and revealed her white underclothes that screamed of her innocence, but that were decorated with strips of lace that were almost maddeningly sensual. He felt his mouth go dry, as the light of the flames illuminated her in such a way that he could glimpse the tantalizing curve of her breasts through her camisole that reached a little above her abdomen, so that he could see her dainty waist. He watched as her vibrant red curls cascaded down her back and contrasted with the milky whiteness of her skin and Thorin was left to wonder how her hair would feel in his hands, wrapped tightly around his wrist. He focused on her glowing red cheeks and her rosy lips against her white skin, which appeared to glow with a golden tinge as the light of the flames were reflected off it. Like raspberries on cream.

He exhaled heavily, shakily.

She made him dizzy with desire.

The last thing he saw before the burlap sack was pulled up and the enchantment on him was broken, was a gathering of freckles on her right shoulders. Laurel lay down a little distance from the men and he could feel the embarrassment and humiliation radiating off her in waves.

He breathed heavily, as he attempted to slow the galloping pace of his heart and tried to recover from the intense sensations that had ensnared him. He felt alarm at the feelings that had taken a hold of him- of the desire he had felt for her, a feeling that had been unprecedented in its intensity. He exhaled shakily and then he heard the low voice of his nephew: "At least I'll die a happy man, now." He felt caustic indignation seize him and he proceeded to kick his nephew in the back to punish him for his ungallant comment, while he tried to get his own tumultuous feelings under control.

"Wait, you are going about this in the wrong manner. You can't cook the dwarves this way. I mean have you smelled them?" He heard the halfling's loud voice on his right and again he looked at the Hobbit darkly. The little, treacherous ferret wanted to sell them out in the hopes that perhaps the trolls would spare him. He heard the indignated outcry of his kin, yet he kept silent and watched him with disgust.

"The secret to cooking dwarf is... To skin them first." Thorin started to struggle against his constraints vehemently, a need to hurt the Hobbit for his words propelling him. The other dwarves in the company were similarly outraged and he could hear Laurel as she exclaimed her cousin's name in alarm and disbelief.

"What a load of rubbish. I have eaten plenty of dwarves with their skin on. Nice and crunchy." One of the trolls then grabbed Bombur and dangled the ginger dwarf over his open mouth and Thorin once more wished to free himself to come to the rescue of his kin. "NO!" he heard her shriek from his right "Not this one. He has worms in his... Tubes?" His gaze was pulled to her, as she looked down quizically at her exclamation and he questioned her intentions. Yet whatever she had attempted, her claim had caused the troll to let go of Bombur in disgust and the chubby dwarf went sailing through the air, until he landed on his kin, who emitted a pained 'oomph' at the impact and the weight of the dwarf. "YES! YES!", he heard the burglar state with enthusiasm "In fact they are all riddled with parasites. It's a terrible business. I wouldn't risk, I really wouldn't." He looked at the pair of hobbits, who were nodding their heads vehemently at their words and then it dawned on Thorin. They were trying to stall for time, to perhaps even get them out. Thorin did not know what this could have solved, but he knew that it was better than passively allowing them to be eaten. So as he saw Laurel and Bilbo's exasperated expressions at Kili, who was loudly declaring: "I don't have parasites. You have parasites!" He once more kicked Kili in the back and then it seemed as if the rest of the vompany had grasped the hobbits' intention and they proceeded to declare that they had huge parasites, the size of their arms.

"Well, what would you have us do then? Let them all go?", the trolls addressed the hobbits and then he heard the loud voice of Gandalf, as he stepped into view and said: "The dawn will take you all." With those words, Gandalf brought his cane down and effectively split the rock he was standing upon and allowed sunlight to fill the clearing. He saw how the three trolls hardened and turned to stone before their eyes. Silence enveloped the clearing, until it was broken by her bell-like peal of relieved laughter, which prompted all the dwarves and Bilbo to join in her amusement. Even he could not help, but smile as he saw Gandalf, who had saved them and at the knowledge that they were now out of harm's way.

* * *

"Where did you go to if I may ask?" He approached Gandalf, who was studying the stone statures of the trolls contemplatively. Gandalf turned to him and stated: "To look ahead." What brought you back?", he asked as he came to a stop before the wizard and eyed him with reserve, questioning the reason for his return. "Looking behind." He did not fully understand the connotations of Gandalf's words, but he was grateful that the wizard had not abandoned them and left them behind. So he allowed a small grateful smirk to twist his lips and he bowed his head in thanks to the weathered, elder man. "No harm done. Still you are all in one piece." Gandalf stated with congeniality and Thorin could not stop the twinge of bitterness to intermingle his relief at their rescue and said lowly: "No thanks to your burglars." Gandalf looked at him incredulously and slightly offended: "They had the nouse to play for time. None of the rest of you thought of that." Reprimanded he looked down, before he glimpsed out of the corner of his eyes that the burglar had scooped up his cousin, who was still in the burlap sack and had her clothes clutched in her hands with her arms around the halfling's neck to support herself and they both moved off into the forest, no doubt so she could dress herself in privacy and preserve some of her modesty. He looked after her for a few long seconds, even after she had disappeared from his view and then he dedicated himself to his conversation with Gandalf, where the two wondered what the trolls had been doing so far south.


	15. Sweet Flower

Chapter 14

_"I ne'er was struck before that hour with love so sudden and so sweet, Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower and stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale as deadly pale. My legs refused to walk away, and when she looked, what could I ail? My life and all seemed turned to clay."- First Love, John Clare_

He stepped out of the dark shadow the trolls' cave threw on the ground. He stood quietly for a moment and took a deep breath in hopes of dispelling the foul, putrid stench that prevailed in his nostrils from his time spent in the trolls' dark and concealed hideout. His uncle Thorin and Gandalf had realized that the trolls'd had to have a hide out this far to the south, and since they could not move in the daylight. So, in acquiescence to their leader's demands, they had spent the morning searching for the cave and had found it about two miles east from the clearing the trolls had tried to eat them in.

Enjoying the contrast of breathing in the crisp and humid scent of the forest rather than being smothered with the smell of foul decay that had prevaded in the trolls' cave, he let his eyes roam over his surroundings and, in an unconscious defensive mechanism, he let his hand rest on the hilt of his sword. Always be alert to any danger and be prepared to fight any hazard that comes your way, never allow yourself to be put in a vulnerable position. That is what his uncle had taught him ever since he had been strong enough to be able to hold a sword. He was no fool, he knew exactly that for him the purpose of this quest did not only lie in recovering his rightful halls, but that it was a way to prove himself to Thorin, to show his uncle that he had absorbed his education, that he could be a leader as rightful and fierce, as his uncle. Additionally, he knew that Thorin was watching him carefully on this journey and was seeing whether he would act and prove himself a leader. Of course, his uncle watched every member of the company closely, yet him most of all. Him, Thorin's eldest nephew, whom he had, since earliest childhood, groomed to be a leader. The one he expected... demanded... maturity and level-headedness from.

So, Fili was plagued with responsibility, and it sprung not only from his uncle's careful scrutiny, but also because his little brother, had decided to join their uncle's company. His little brother, who was simultaneously his best friend, whom he had taught to sword fight, when a small, doe-eyed Kili had come up to him and had complained that their uncle only focused on Fili and paid him the most attention. His little brother, who he loved more than anything else, whom their mother had only allowed to go on the Erebor quest reluctantly. Fili knew that he had to keep an eye on his little brother and he was fearful of allowing Kili to be exposed to the hazards they would likely face on this journey. He knew that the trolls had been one of the more harmless dangers. Yet, still the company had been captured and only out of a stroke of luck had they not ended up as the trolls' dinner. It had been his and Kili's fault that they had gotten captured. Perhaps the burglar's as well, but he had been able to redeem himself by diverting the trolls' attention until Gandalf had arrived and saved them. After that his painful knowledge had only been once more confirmed. The knowledge that he was not a natural born and inspiring leader as his uncle. His uncle, who radiated silent authority and inspired loyalty without any ardous efforts. The man that everyone seemed in awe of. Who every single member of the company had fearful respect of and who no one dared to cross or question.

No one except one that is, Fili thought. As that train of thought crossed his mind, he felt his lips twist into a wide and affectionate grin and his eyes immediately came to rest upon the fiery hobbit girl, who Fili had become so fond of since that night in Bag End. She was not scared to show Thorin Oakenshield what she thought of him and his self-assuredness at times. Who had not been deterred that evening of the council to admonish his uncle, the rightful king under the mountain, when he had shown an atricious lack of courtesy and manners toward her cousin, in her opinion. Who had surprised him so greatly when she had called out his uncle, not deterred even when she surely had grasped due to the solemnity and respect that had oozed off every dwarf, that Thorin Oakenshield was a figure of respect amongst their race. Yet his shock had soon morphed to amusement. He had been amused and admittedly slightly awestruck, that this girl who had appeared so fragile and delicate to him had proved to possess such a fiery spirit. It was not that she was disrespectful. No, Fili could see that she did recognize his uncle's authority and his station and treated him with the correct amount of respect that was a leader's due, but she refused to be submissive, she was not deterred to speak her mind. Even after Fili had told her on the first day's ride that Thorin was the rightful king under the mountain and for a few seconds her eyes had widened almost comically, before she had gotten a contemplative look on her face and then pursed her lips and shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly. He'd had to resist the urge to snort aloud then, because he knew without asking, that she had been reflecting on her behaviour toward his uncle during their first meeting and their confrontation and he had found it refreshing that she had not regretted or dreaded her actions, even after discovering that Thorin was king and part of the line of Durin. Fili knew that she meant no disrespect, she only wanted to be treated fairly and would not tolerate that she and her cousin were handled unjustly, only because of the fact that they were hobbits. And her fiery and tigerish temper amused him. It surprised him; even now, especially after last night when she had saved Bombur's life, by claiming that the dwarves were infected with parasites and she had stood her ground against the trolls.

But that was not the only thing that surprised Fili about Laurel Took. More often than not he would be astonished at her kindness and her genuinety. Her openness and acceptance toward the dwarves, even when Fili knew that she had never seen another dwarf before, when he knew that she had never stepped foot outside of the Shire, where only the hobbits resided. The race of dwarves was one that was proud and narrow-minded, especially concerning non-dwarfish individuals. And from this sprung the prejudice of many dwarves toward other races and the firm belief that dwarves were superior- in their crafts and in battle. That is why some member of the company, especially the elder ones like Thorin himself and Gloin were still wary toward the two hobbits that had joined their company in the Shire. That is why he was still reluctant in recognizing Master Baggins' burglar abilities. Yet, try as he might, he had not been able to show the same wariness toward Laurel. No, he hadn't. Not when she had been so open and enthusiastic to befriend him and his brother. Not when she had gone up to Bifur, whom he knew was especially fond of her, and had offered her companionship to the reticent dwarf, the last person he had thought she would have gone up to. When she had been so genuine in her wish and had not minded the incredulity and the confusion from every dwarf that had been aimed at her when she had joined Bifur on that night and had spoken her soft words to him. Not when her kindness was something that had deepened the attraction he felt toward her and was a facet of her that seemed to surprise every dwarf, even his uncle, whom he had always experienced as so invulnerable and aloof. Even his callous uncle was perplexed by Laurel, because why else would Fili often find that when they had gathered around the camp fire, his uncle would be looking in their direction with his eyes trained on the red-haired girl with an intense and unreadable gaze. Surely Thorin was confused, why else would he scrutinize Laurel in this manner?

As he looked at Laurel, who was sitting on a dry log with her head tipped back slightly to absorb the midday sun, which illuminated her ivory skin, he was once more struck with the impression he'd first had of her, when she had opened the green door to Bag End and smiling she had welcomed him and his brother into her home. He'd thought her to be an angel and for a second he'd questioned if she was even real, or not just a heavenly creature with kind beauty. Yet if her beauty was the only thing that drew him to her, if her kindness and her gentility had not ensnared him, he would have been able to disregard her in favour of this quest that he knew was of immeasurable importance, which he knew would earn him his uncle's recognition, something that he had coveted for so long. Perhaps he should have rued her, rued that he had met her at this point in his life, which was so crucial and where he did not require any form of distraction. Perhaps he should have rued her for albeit unknowingly providing that distraction. Yet he could not. Not when he came down to sit beside her and her gaze shifted to him, as she sensed his arrival.

Not when she smiled at him welcomingly and then that radiant smile widened as she saw the state of his clothing and she whispered in her soft, warm voice: "You're all dusty from that blasted cave." She then proceeded to gently pet and remove the dust from his clothing and the contact caused Fili's breathing to quicken and for him to grow even warmer beneath his heavy armour. How could he rue having met her then? As her hands moved on to his shoulders, he gently put his atop of hers and he once more marveled, how her hand was much smaller and softer than his. He studied their hands and then he looked up at her and she had her brows slightly furrowed, silently questioning him but still smiling all the same. The urge to lower his lips to hers became too strong to resist then.

And he would have. He would have kissed her, if it had not been for Kili arriving at that very second. He felt her withdraw her hands from beneath his and immediately she put some distance between them, before focusing her attention on his brother, who was looking upon Laurel with anticipation and had his hands behind his back, almost as if he was hiding something. With chagrin at the interruption, he looked at Kili and he saw the same affection he felt towards her reflected on his brother's young Features, in his affectionate, and wide smile and immediately Fili grew grave at that. He loved his brother more than anything in the world and the thought of causing him pain was unimaginable, almost unendurable. They had grown up together and even if they'd not shared a bond of blood, the natural bond between two brothers, he knew that he and Kili would have been the best of friends in any way, that the bond between them would have been formed, that they would have found each other. Yet... he wanted to be with Laurel. He knew that. He wanted to be with her and he'd never felt that same wish with any of the other women he had been interested in. Yet that would undoubtedly cause his brother pain. He sighed inwardly and decided to push these thoughts aside for the moment. They were all on a perilious journey. If they reclaimed Erebor... when they reclaimed Erebor he amended cockily, then he would focus on solving the issues between the three of them. Then would they focus on the conflict that had inadvertently formed, as soon as they had laid eyes on Laurel.

"I have something for you.", Kili said in an indulgent and affectionate whisper and this caused Laurel's smile to widen at the brother and her brows to raise in questioning.

He saw how her eyes got a glint of awe in them, when Kili returned his Hands from behind his back and grasped in them he had a small sword, that he had found in the trolls' cave and which was of a good size for Laurel. She rose in solemn awe and took the sheathed sword from Kili's outstretched hands, before unsheathing it and holding it before her and looking at it in amazement with a small, yet joyous smile on her face. He saw how the curved blade reflected the light of the sun, which fell upon it in a bright glint and how that was reflected on her right cheek. Then she resheathed the blade before embracing Kili gratefully and expressing her thanks. He saw how his brother's eyes closed at the feel of her embracing him and how he relished the contact and tightly returned the hug. Jealously, Fili decided to interrupt by saying: "That blade will be of no use to you, if you know not how to use it." She turned at his words and then looked at him and then he smiled indulgingly and said: "If you want I... we can teach you... just so you can defend yourself." She smiled at him and nodded her head with vehemence. He chuckled and continued to observe the girl, who almost seemed to be brimming with anticipation now.

* * *

Her arms ached. Excrutiantingly. Despite the fact that she had shed her long, red overcoat and her waistcoat and she stood only clad in her thin white shirt and her beige trousers, she was still warm and she raised her forearm to wipe the sweat that was running down her cheek. She had freed her red hair from the tight braid that had scooped her curls together, longing to feel the wind blow through them. Not for the first time this travel did she confound her long curls and she was sorely tempted to take the blade that Kili had gifted her and simply cut them off, so that it would be more convenient. But, earlier, her cousin had gathered her intent when she had fingered her curls unappreciatively and inducing a comical amount of menace in his voice he had told her: "Don't you dare!" She had shook her head at Bilbo and smiled at him, yet she had heeded her cousin's wish and had not cut off her long red hair. She would braid it together later, but at this moment she relished the lack of pressure on her scalp, as the tight braid pulled uncomfortably at the skin on her head.

Yet, despite her physical exhaustion and slight discomfort, she could not help but feel carefree amusement at the impromptu sword fighting lesson, that the two brothers had organized for this evening. They had left the troll cave shortly after midday and then a rainy deluge had come upon them and had left her and the rest of the company completely soaked and very disgruntled, some more than others. Her hair still cascaded damply down her back and moistened the fresh shirt she had put on, as her other clothing was now drying beside the campfire. The brothers had come up to her after she had put down her clothes and had indulged in the promise they had given her in front of the troll cave at midday. They had taken her aside and she was now busy lifting her sword to build up some strength in her arms, as Fili had put it and she bit her lips resisting the urge to laugh at her no doubt appaling form. She looked to her right to see Bilbo panting heavily as he too had partaken in the brother's lesson to become dexterous with the sword Gandalf had given him. It pained her to admit, but her cousin made a horrible form. Him that did not appear intimidating in the slightest, swinging that handsome blade with his shoulders slumped and his face contorted in a pained expression. She knew that she was just as bad and was sure that her and her cousin were providing unlimited amusement to the battle-weary and weapon-skilled dwarves. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, especially as periodically there would be exclamations and interjections from the other dwarves, that had gathered at the campfire, who were watching them, either correcting something that her or her cousin had done or supplementing what the brothers were teaching them.

She sighed and turned her head to her cousin and said: "I believe that I much prefer the dry branches that we used to use a few years back." Her cousin looked up and pursed his lips unhappily before muttering something that sounded like 'You're telling me!' She chuckled at that, before shifting her gaze and returning her attention to the blade, she was busy lifting up and down.

Her head snapped up when, suddenly, she heard heavy footsteps approaching the four of them. She was met with the sight of Thorin Oakenshield, as he approached them with a disapproving expression on his face. She immediately expected and dreaded that he would admonish them, that he would admonish her and her cousin for accepting his nephews' teaching offer, especially when he had warned her to stay away from Fili and Kili, to stop being a distraction. She worried that he would mock her and Bilbo for their obvious lack of skill and would once more tell them of their lack of suitability for this quest. Yet what happened next surprised her.

He adressed his nephews and said admonishingly: "You are not teaching her properly. You have not taken into consideration that she is smaller and slighter than the two of you, than dwarves."

And then he came up to her and proceeded to correct her stance. She felt him reposition her arms and she felt as if the warmth of his hands had seeped through the thin fabric of her shirt and onto her skin. Her breathing hitched and she looked up at his face that was so close to her, that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her sensitive, pointed ears. He was saying something to her, but it was as if she was in a veil, as if her senses were muted due to his proximity.

She inhaled sharply when his calloused hands moved toward her waist so he could reposition her legs and it was as if for a moment she had stopped breathing and consisted only of warmth. She licked her dry lips nervously and continued to look at Thorin's handsome face with slight surprise. As if sensing her scrutinizing gaze, he looked up and his stormy eyes met hers.

At a distance she would have surely missed it, but she was so close to him... close enough that she could see a slight softening to his steely gaze when his eyes met hers, that he held her gaze and that he no longer looked upon her in disapprovement and slight contempt, but with something else that was indistinguishable, unreadable.

He held her gaze for a few seconds that for her seemed to stretch eternally long. His hands had unconsciously tightened on her slim waist. To her it felt as if they had stood for hours in this position, when in reality only a few short seconds had passed.

Yet it had not been long enough, because then, and from a distance she would have again not perceived it, his brows furrowed and the right corner of his lips twitched in not a smirk, but in an expression that expressed dissatisfaction at something which only he knew about. He cocked his head to the side still holding her gaze and then she saw the slight shaking of his head and his hands left her waist and he turned away and stalked off without a further word.

She felt a sense of loss and exhaled heavily. She continued watching his retreating back not in elation, not in exhaustion, but in inexplicable disappointment.

* * *

He sneered as he looked toward the flames from the campfire of the dwarves and he observed the sturdy and stocky silhouette of the members from Thorin Oakenshield's company with distaste and contemptous hate. He had found them and he had to cringe hatefully, as the jovial laughter of these creatures grated in his ears. Without taking his eyes off his most despised prize he spat to his inferior, who was stood behind him: "Send word to the master..." And then he induced as much hate as he could in the next words, thinking of how Thorin Oakenshield had wronged his leader, the one all revered for his unquestionable malevolence: "... We have found the dwarf-scum."


	16. The caged bird

Chapter 15

_"The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom."- I know why the caged bird sings, Maya Angelou_

Her heart was racing and it felt as if it would burst out of her chest at any second, as she pressed herself against the stony facade of the huge boulder they were hid behind.

They were hiding.

They were hiding from the grotesque and bloodthirsty abominations that chased them, that were on their heels and no doubt out for their blood. Had she not been filled with dread she would have perhaps seen the irony of the situation, seen that it was comical that the morning had started so idyllically with the company having found rest in a forest clearing, where the early morning sun had shone and the light had been reflected by the dew drops on the greenery. She would have found it funny that the morning had started so peacefully and that it had only taken a few minutes for the situation to be completely reversed in that they now were in a hazardous and frightening, potentially life-threatening situation. She could still remember how it had all began. How they had stood off to the sides, and she had leaned against the trunk of an old tree, while Gandalf conversed with Radagast the Brown, one of the wizards from his order. She remembered what a fright she had gotten when the disheveled and filthy, slightly confused wizard had emerged from the dense forest growth on a wooden sleigh led by a group of rabbits. Yet the fright that she had gotten at the sight did not compare with what she felt now. Now she felt pure and undiluted fear and panic.

_A long, chilling howl sounded from behind her and before they could question what type of beast had created the sound, she felt a current of air above her and the next thing she saw was a great, fury beast with wild, yellow, cruel eyes landing before her. She did not have time to taken in the beast, which was gnarling and growling with its huge, lolling tongue and its sharp, yellow teeth, before it was quickly cut down by Dwalin, who swung his axe onto the creature's sturdy neck and the beast went down with a shrill cry of pain. The monster was soon followed by another, but before that one could reach the clearing from the peak of the hill it stood upon, Kili had already shot it down with one of his precise arrows. The creature tumbled down toward them, still intent on causing them pain, but was soon liquidated when Thorin swung his new, elvish blade upon it. _

_With a cry of disgust, Thorin wrenched his blade free from the creature's neck and Laurel had to look away as warm, dark, sticky blood came flowing out of the wound like an ever-flowing, interminable stream. "Warg Scouts.", she heard Thorin exclaim with disgust and disbelief dripping from his words. She looked up at him and saw that he was looking down at the beast with pure hatred and then he turned to his company and said with alarm: "Which means an Orc Pack is not far behind." Beside her, she heard Bilbo exclaim with alarm and fear: "Orc Pack?" _

_"Who did you tell about this quest beyond your kin?" Gandalf questioned Thorin sternly and in response the brooding dwarf furrowed his brows and said: "No one!" "Who did you tell?" Gandalf's voice had risen and Laurel assumed that this would have been the closest thing to screaming at one that the wizard would have ever done. Thorin approached the mass of assembled men slowly and said through gritted teeth, but with absolute conviction: "No one, I swear!" His nostrils flared, as he looked at his surroundings and then he glared at Gandalf and said: "What in Durin's name is going on?" "You're being hunted." Gandalf stated with solemnity and she could feel how everyone had stiffened at Gandalf's words. _

_"I'll draw them off." She heard the creaky voice of Radagast call out. She furrowed her brow at the slightly dazed wizard's attempts to help them and she knew that eventhough he meant well, that he was completely disillusioned if he thought he could distract the Orcs, who were after them if Gandalf's word were anything to go by and whom she had known since her earliest stages of life were the most cruel and hateful creatures on Middle-Earth. "They are Gundabag Wargs. They will outrun you." Gandalf stated exasperatedly, voicing her inner thoughts. "These are roscabel rabbits. I'd like to see them try." Radagast had stated with a small mischievious smile._

And that is how Radagast the Brown had created a distraction and was now being pursued by Orcs, while the company had exploited that opportunity and had tried to escape from the Orcs that were chasing them and that were no doubt out for their blood. It had felt to Laurel, as if they had run throughout the length of the entire Middle-Earth, when truly they had only run through the vast, open range on a rocky terrain, which Laurel had treaded through with caution in fear of hurting her leg and being left behind. The company was now hid behind one of the mountainous rock formations and she was pressing herself tightly against the rock, in hopes of hiding herself better, in hopes of being absorbed by the rock. Especially, as she could hear the orcs on their wargs approaching them, their hiding place, having given up on the mad chase on the Wizard. She held her breath and strained her pointy ear, as she heard the warg's claws coming closer to them. She listened intently, almost masochistically to the sound, not wanting to be caught off guard, wanting to know when danger and their pursuer would be upon them.

She was stood between Bilbo and Thorin and out of the corner of her eyes, she saw how her cousin was white as a sheet, no doubt sharing her fear over their situation. He held his walking stick clutched in his hand, so tightly that Laurel could see that his knuckles had turned as white as him. She saw that Thorin was nodding at Kili on his other side, and how the latter proceeded to draw back an arrow and move forth into the Orc's viewing path. Kili shot down the warg before he could descend upon them and the great beast gave a deafening roar before it came tumbling down and lay on the ground still snarling and snapping its strong, ugly jaw. Its rider righted himself, before it attempted to attack the dwarves swinging its crude and unrefined, dark blade high. Yet he did not achieve what he set out to do, because as soon as the orc had risen he had been cut down by Dwalin, Bifur and Thorin.

She averted her eyes from the display, especially as she saw the creature's bloody face contort in agony. As she saw how its ugly visage contorted in pain and became impossibly more hideous and she cringed as she heard its high-pitched and pained shrieks, which's volume worried her, as it would no doubt alert the other orcs to their location. The sound of the orc's agonized shrieks coupled with the dull and squeamish sound of blades cutting flesh created a horrible melody, and she had to resist the urge to cover her ears. It was not that she felt pity toward the creature, she did not, because she knew that if the situations were reserved, that the orcs would be doing much worse to any of them. Still death was so ugly and this was the first time, she'd ever had to witness a creature dying. She had seen dead creatures before. She'd even witnessed others dying, namely her beloved aunt Bella, whose departure still pained her after a year had passed.

But she'd never had to witness such a brutal and painful death.

She'd seen dead creatures before, she'd seen how at the start of the spring season some of the Hobbit men would go into the forest and then emerge a few hours later, brimming with self-satisfaction and with the lifeless and limp carcasses of animals slung over their shoulder. She'd often seen the Hobbit men's spoils of the hunt, she'd often had to skin them and prepare them for eating. Yet she had never been forced to witness how these creatures died. How the life slowly seeped out of their eyes, leaving their pupils glassy. How their fingers still twitched long after the creature had stopped breathing. She'd never had to witness death, up until now.

Yet, she did not have time to focus and reflect on this, as Gandalf was urging them to move, because, as she had predicted, the other orcs had been made aware of their location due to their fallen ally's dying sounds and were now chasing them truly.

Her lungs were burning, as her short legs attempted to Keep up with the surprisingly agile dwarves. The landscape around her was a blur of yellowing green and drab grey and she could see the menacing and imposing silhouettes of the orcs and their wargs in the distance. She longed to escape them and she continued to run for an infinite amount of time.

Soon, however they came to a stop, and Laurel looked around her quickly. They were surrounded! Orcs to their east, Orcs to their west and Orcs in front of them. She swallowed heavily and drily and her grip of her sword tightened, yet she knew that it would do her no good, because she did not know how to use it. She had not been able to learn sufficient during the singular lesson the brothers had given to her yesterday. Not enough to escape from a confrontation with orcs alive, not to mention unscathed. "There are more coming!" she heard Kili's voice shouting in the distance and she prepared herself for the confrontation, for when the wargs would pounce upon her and she would be unable to defend herself and she knew that no help would come from the dwarves, because they would be no doubt busy protecting themselves.

"Over here, you fools!" She heard Gandalf's loud voice, coming from somewhere behind her and, as she looked over her shoulders, she saw the tall, willowy form of the wizard standing beside a rock formation. The company all ran toward the wizard, desperate to escape from the bloodshed that was no doubt to come and willing to accept anything to escape the fates that awaited at the hands of the orcs. She heard the wargs approaching their running forms, off in the distance and this only spurned her to move more quickly. She felt hope as she looked at the wizard and saw how the dwarves were slowly disappearing off into safety behind the rock formation.

Thorin Oakenshield was stood on the rock and was overlooking the distance, looking for his company and urging them down into the cave, wanting to ensure the presence of his kin before escaping himself. She would be one of the last ones to escape, because all the others had already sought protection in the cave.

"Kili!" she heard Thorin shout over her head and she immediately whirled around at the sound of her friend's name. Her eyes scowered the landscape for her friend's familiar form and she saw how he was busy shooting down the approaching wargs and keeping the orcs at bay. He was so busy aiming off into the distance, that he did not see the form of a riderless warg approach him from behind, with silent steps, and was oblivious to the menace that was slowly coming closer to him.

She did not want happened next or what on earth had possessed her to turn from her escape and from safety and propelled her legs to run toward Kili and toward certain danger. Yet she had not thought. She had not spent time to reflect that she would be willingly risking her life for a dwarf, who had become a friend to her only recently. She did not think, reflect on the fact that she did not know how to use her blade and would be useless in a fight. She did not pay mind to Thorin's alarmed exclamation of her name. She was consumed by fire that seemed spread through her blood and which propelled her toward her dwarven friend. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she did not feel any physical exhaustion, she did not feel out of breath, as she would have expected after running for so long. Unconsciously she perceived an alarmed cry of 'No' and from the pitch, she vaguely recognized it as her own.

But she gave mind to any of that, as she thrust her blade into the beast's side, just as it was raising its huge, sharp claw to cut down Kili.

At the sensation of a blade penetrating its flesh, the creature gave an alarmed and pained growl and immediately its Attention was drawn to her, as she retrieved her blade and stood before it shakingly. She looked into the creature's yellow, bloodshot eyes and its barred, bloody teeth and she took only a moment to note that it was the same warg that Kili had shot previously, when they had been crouched behind the boulder. But then the whizz of an arrow passed by her left ear and the creature crumpled dead to the ground with an arrow imbedded in its forehead. She looked at the dead warg numbly, and through the haze she felt Kili taking her hand and urging her to run, as the orcs were still numerously coming and chasing them.

She ran quickly, still with that euphoric sensation fueling her. She did not even perceive the sharp stab of pain she felt, as her ankle twisted, when she walked over one of the rocks that made this terrain so uneven. She continued running, even though she was now limping slightly. Yet she saw the rock formation where the dwarves had found their escape, where Thorin was still standing and urging them to move quicker.

She slid down the rock and immediately found safety in the cave. Then, she was holding herself up on shaky arms and she was resisting the urge to become nauseous in front of the dwarves. The invincible feeling that she had felt, as she had attempted to assist Kili was dissipating and giving way to all-encompassing, all-consuming dread and the realization of how foolishly she had put herself in danger and what the true extents would have been for her at the hands of that heinous warg, had Kili not shot it in that exact second. She still continued kneeling on the ground she had landed on and was incredulously looking at the ground below her, with a wide gaze. Her entire form was shaking and she wondered why she had not simply collapsed and how her arms were still finding strength to hold her up. She felt someone support her form and raise her up so that she now stood. Her legs felt as if they were made of rubber, and she summoned all of her power to not fall down again and resist the shaking of her knees.

She looked up as she saw Thorin approach her, visibly furious. He towered over her, but bent down so that he was closer to her face and hissed: "What were you thinking, you foolish, headstrong girl?" She looked down properly castigated and only felt the tremors that wreaked through her body become more forceful. Had she been in her old spirits, she would have not accepted Thorin's admonishment, especially when she had gone to save his nephew, while he had simply stood on the boulder, unmovingly. She would have told him that fiercely. Yet she could not, because she felt as if all life beside the dread she now felt had seeped out of her. So she kept silent and perceived him exhaling with exasperation. "We need to move on." she heard his guttural voice state to the assembled and she made to walk, but then a stinging pain originating from her ankle spread through her leg and she gritted her teeth instinctively, but it did not stop her from giving a low shriek of pain. "What is it?" She heard Thorin say beside her and she did not dare to look at him to see how he disapproved of everything she did with a passion and in a low whisper she said, ashamed: "My ankle. I think I twisted it."

She did not fail to hear his sigh of annoyance and expected him to curse her and leave her to the consequences of her unmeditated actions. Yet the next thing she knew was that he had scooped her slight form up into his arms. Her arms went instinctively around his neck, to prevent her from falling down and securing her balance. She looked at him incredulously, yet he kept his hard gaze forward and did not respond to her eyes, which he no doubt felt trained on his face. In acceptance, she closed her eyes and buried her face into his thick fur vest. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to shakily and audibly exhale, while keeping her face buried in the fur. She felt the warmth of his fur, enveloping her, and she felt comfort in his arms. She did not look up and simply allowed the dread she had felt during the orc chase to flow through her and then to dissipate. "Headstrong, foolhardy girl." she heard him mutter. She did not know if it was simply something she had imagined, but his words did no longer seem drenched with disapproval. His guttural, deep voice seemed softer, warmer and she allowed herself to be comforted by this fact- imaginary or not.

* * *

She did not look up for a long while, until she heard Gandalf's voice state: "The valley of Imlandris. The last homely house or as it is known in common tongue... Rivendell." She looked up and immediately she was met with a most fantastical sight. The sight of the place she had so longed to know. The sight of the place she had always read about in her childhood and that she had subsequently dreamed about. With awe she studied the high and sophisticated buildings, which twisted and were interspersed with lush green trees, which reached up high into the sky. The stone that constituted Rivendell seemed to shine golden in the late afternoon sun and she took in the sights of the ancient statues with reverent eyes. It was beautiful. It was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen and she envied that her mother had grown up in such a place. A place, which exuded refinement and noble tranquility and hospitality. She managed to wrench her eyes of the marmour facade of the building they were approaching and looked down at Bilbo, who seemed similarly amazed at what he was seeing.

Then she let her eyes course over the dwarves and her joy fell at seeing the wary and slightly contemptous gaze that had take residence on their faces, while they regarded the elven city. Stubborn dwarves! They did not allow themselves to relish in the beauty and the soothing tranquility of the place, only because it was of elven-make. It grieved her, because she was once more made aware that the dwarves would never accept her if they found out about her heritage and she knew that if her and Gandalf's deception was revealed that she would pull their ire and their prejudice-induced hatred upon her. Any previous friendly interactions would be disregarded in favour of their hatred toward her kin.

Thorin let her down and she now stood on a circular platform in front of a long, endless staircase and a man with long, ebony hair and ethereal features was descending the steps. He addressed and greeted Gandalf, who had requested to speak with a Lord Elrond, before conversing briefly with the elf who she had gathered was called Lindir. Lindir's face fell at GAndalf's request and he threw a quick look at the dwarves before he stated with solemnity: "My Lord Elrond is not here. "Where is he then?" Gandalf asked and in response to his question a high-pitched horn sounded off in the distance and this sound was followed by the pounding symphony of approaching horse hooves. In alarm, the dwarves formed a circle around her and Bilbo in an attempt to protect them, though she did not know what hazard the dwarves ecxpected in these tranquil surroundings. With their swords drawn and their faces contorted in a contemptous and disapproving expression, the dwarves eyed the approaching individuals, clad in a steel armour perched on high horses, who had proceeded to encircle the cluster of dwarves.

"My Lord Elrond. Mellon nin." Gandalf stated and did the same gestures of greeting that Lindir had bestowed upon him previously. "Gandalf." Her eyes were drawn to the imposing and noble-looking elf, who was looking at the wizard with a small, indulging smile. Her eyes widened at the dark-haired elf, because he simply exuded knowledge and refinement and she was almost in awe of him. He did not physically appear older than the elf that had greeted them, but his eyes were knowledgeable and spoke of his worldliness, that he was probably one of the wisest creatures in Middle Earth. She observed him, as he and Gandalf conversed in elvish and how Lord Elrond dismounted his horse and approached the wizard before embracing him. "Strange for orcs to come so close to our borders. Someone or something must have drawn them near." Lord Elrond stated impassively, while eyeing Gandalf in almost amused suspicion. "Ah, that would be us." Gandalf answered and for the first time, since he had arrived, Lord Elrond's eyes came to rest upon the company, who was still looking at him with distrust and wariness. Yet the close and almost asphyxiating cluster dissipated, as Thorin stepped closer to the elf Lord, almost reluctantly, as the former adressed the brooding dwarf: "Welcome Thorin. Son of Thrain." "I do not believe we have met." "You have your grandfather's bearing. I knew Thror, when he ruled under the mountain." Lord Elrond answered to Thorin's questioning statement. "Indeed", the dwarven king said with self-assuredness "He made no mention of you." Laurel huffed and rolled her eyes at Thorin's lack of courtesy toward the man, who would no doubt be their host for tonight. For his lack of manners: insulting the man, who undoubtedly offer them shelter and accomodations.

Yet Lord Elrond refused to appear offended and continued to gaze upon Thorin with impasiveness. Then his gaze shifted and his eyes came to rest upon her. He studied her for a few long seconds and then his right eyebrow raised in something akin to surprise and the corner of his lips twitched up into a small, delighted smile.

Yet Laurel could not reciprocate, she felt only dread, because she had gathered that he had recognized her. This was her mother's native land, there was a huge likelihood that Lord Elrond and Elauriel were acquainted and if not, she was absolutely certain that this wise man had perceived that she was part elvish. She lowered her gaze, because she knew and dreaded what was to come now. Lord Elrond would unknowingly reveal her and Gandalf's deception and she anticipated the dwarves' ire. "I see you have a wounded." She looked upon the elf-lord, who was still smiling at her and she suspired silently in relief, He would not reveal her heritage now and she made to approach the elven lord, who was silently beckoning her.

Then she felt Thorin's calloused Hands on her forearm, as a constraint, holding her in place and preventing her from continuing on her trajectory to Lord Elrond. "What do you want with the girl?", he spat and eyed the elven lord with distaste. "I simply wish to look at her ankle. I am a healer. Allow me to escort her to our healing hall, where she shall be looked after. If that would be agreeable?" The last part he had said addressing her and she had bowed her head in acquiescent gratitude, yet Thorin's grasp did not lessen on her arm. She shifted her head toward the brooding dwarven king and he reciprocated her gaze when he felt hers upon him, when she lay her hand atop his that held her arm. She smiled tightly, slightly impatiently, at him and said with anemity: "It's alright Thorin." She then gently grasped his hand and moved it off her arm, before she approached the elven lord. He looked down at her and then he raised his head and said something in elvish to the dwarves and she had to bow her head to hide her smile of amusement at Lord Elrond's retribution and his teasing of the dwarves by addressing them in a language foreign to them. "Does he offer us offense?" she heard Gloin's outraged voice behind her and then Gandalf's voice stated with exasperation: "No, Master Gloin he's offering you accomodations and food." She heard the muttering of the dwarves, as they seemed to consider the elf lord's offer, before Gloin said: "Well, in that case... Lead on." She shook her head fondly at the dwarves' antics. Lord Elrond addressed the elf Lindir once more, no doubt ordering him to show the dwarves' their accomodation, before she moved off with Lord Elrond in the direction of the healing halls.

* * *

She had her head bowed as Lord Elrond looked at her swollen ankle and was spreading some ointment upon the wound. She exhaled as she felt the cool texture of the remedy, which soothed and cooled her throbbing ankle. She kept her head bowed, even as she felt Lord Elrond's gaze periodically shift on her. Though she knew that he wished to address her on the matter of her heritage, but would only do so if prompted by her. This caused a heavy and tense silence to descend upon them and she furrowed her brow in discomfort. She did not wish to talk to Lord Elrond about her mother, lest she be exposed as a a deceiver in front of this respect-inducing man. She did not want this to be his opinion of her, yet she could no longer endure the heavy silence that weighed her down and chose to say noncommitally: "Thank you." She raised her gaze and saw that the elf-lord was studying her impassively, before she bowed her head once more and let her curls curtain her face: "Thank you for the hospitality you have shown toward us. I do not believe you have received the due gratitude for your offer of accomodation. So allow me to thank you for letting us stay in beautiful Rivendell. It is truly an honour." She heard him chuckle lowly before he responded: "Anything for Elauriel's daughter." Her gaze snapped up and she saw how his smile widened at her disbelief. "Your mother would have never forgiven me if I treated her daughter poorly." Sensing her silent question, he said: "I knew your mother. She was an old friend." She smiled bitterly and once more lowered her head before saying: "You knew her better than me. She died when I was very young." "I know. She came to Rivendell before she faded. The loss of my friend grieved me greatly." She felt his hands grasp her chin and raise her head, so he could look at her intently: "Do not judge your mother so gravely. I know her abandonment must seem incomprehensible to you. Yet she loved your father greatly." She furrowed her brows upon hearing his words and felt no consolement from them. "Perhaps you shall come to understand as time and your journey progresses." Lord Elornd stated ominously and Laurel colud not help, but regard this as a warning, as a prediction of what was yet to come for her.

He rose before she could question his words and said: "Your ankle should be healed in the morning. If you wish to join the rest of the company for dinner, simply ask one of the elves and they shall lead you to where we are gathered." She expected him to depart then, but he continued looking upon here, before from one of the pockets in his tunic, he brought forth a leather string upon which a green crystal hung. "Your mother asked me to give this to you, should we meet. It is a dream oracle. Elauriel came into its possession sometime during her century on Middle Earth, yet she never had dreams of fore- and neither hindsight. I believe it belongs to you." He handed her the necklace with a small, knowing smile and she was immediately awed by the green crystal, which was formed like a dew drop and which reflected the late-afternoon light filtering through the windows of the hall. "A dress has been laid out for you, if you wish to join us. I believe it is one of your mother's when she was still an infant." She looked up at the elf-lord and watched his retreating back, before she put the leather cord around her neck and contemplatively looked down at the crystal, which she twirled through her fingers.

* * *

**Hey y'all! A new installment to this saga! I don't want to sound pushy or anything... but are you still enjoying Reading the story, because I see that there are views on this story, but people aren't necessarily reviewing. I hate when people Always beg for reviews every chapter, but I would seriously appreciate if you guy's just took the time to write a few words, a few lines and tell me how I'm doing and if there is still interest for me to continue. I shall officially start a 'question-of-the-week' segment:**

**QOTW (Question of the week): Are you guys enjoying the pace of the development of Thorin and Laurel's relationship and how do you think he will react when he finds out that she is half elvish? **


	17. Light no longer walks the skies

Chapter 16

_"Pity me not because the light of day __a__t the close of day no longer walks the sky; Pity me not for beauties passed away from field to thicket as the year goes by; Pity me not the waning moon, nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea, nor that a man's desire is hushed so soon, __a__nd you no longer look with love on me."- Sonnet 29, Edna St. Vincent Millay_

For the first time in what seemed to be a long time interval, Bilbo felt safe and content, as he sat beside Balin and ate the green food the elves had offered them. It felt surreal that he was truly in Rivendell.

Rivendell, the city he had always read about in his books and the one he had consequently dreamt of one day visiting. The city that had been described as ethereally beautiful and which's description had endeared the elvish race to a younger fauntling Bilbo and had caused him to search for individuals of the afore mentioned race, alongside his cousin in the woods around Bag End. Yet all the descriptions he had read about this city had been nullified when he had stood on the rocky cliff and in the horizon he had seen this glowing settlement. Nothing could have prepared him for the sky-high, elaborate constructions, which seemed to glow golden in the late afternoon, setting sun. Nothing had prepared him for the aura of majesticness and sophistication that had enveloped him when he had first arrived and that spoke of a certain mystical element. He had been amazed, but at the same time he had feel comforted and welcome. He had felt that this place would accept anyone into its beautiful halls. He should have rued leaving it so soon, because he had heard Thorin grumble that they would not accept the hospitality of elves for too long, yet he had felt a sort of premonition, when he had gazed around him and had looked up at the imposing statues, and it seemed to say that this would not be his last visit to Rivendell.

And the elves... the elves were just as he had imagined them. Majestic, ethereal creatures, whose beauty was almost too fierce to behold, let alone to imagine, to describe. Creatures, which seemed to exude knowledge and wisdom. Creatures, which had been so welcoming to him and the rest of the company, that he had been unable to, for even a fraction of a second, think ill of them. He was content that this evening they would not spend the night on the road, that he would not have to snuggle up to his cousin and be fearful that he would almost smother her slight form, because he longed for her warmth as he tried to fight off the chill of the late summer's night. He was content that he would be able to sleep fully and that he would not constantly wake, intently listening for the howls of Wargs, which he had done, since the brothers' words about Orcs and their raids on camps. He felt content that he would sleep on a soft and feathery bed, instead of on the cold, rocky ground, an arrangement that his back was already protesting about intensely. He was happy.

Yet the same could unfortunately not be said about every individual of Thorin Oakenshield's company. Indeed the dwarves seemed to be rather on edge since their arrival in the elvish settlement. He saw the disgruntlement of the dwarves during dinner and towards the elves. He saw how they were discontent at eating green food and how they longed for meat. He could not help, but smile a small, vindictive smile at that. Even though he had started to become less wary towards the dwarves and had even started to care for a select few, such as Balin and Bofur, he had still not forgotten their unexpected intrusion into Bag End, the chaos they had created and how they had raided his pantry. So, he did feel slight contentment because the dwarves seemed so uncomfortable and out of sorts, just how he had felt during the night of the council in Bag End.

Yet he also felt worry, because anyone could easily see the dwarves' animosity toward the elves. One could easily see that Thorin and his dwarves despised elves, especially when they had looked at Lord Elrond with so much wary suspicion and had not even properly thanked the elven lord for the hospitality he had offered them. You could easily see the animosity of the dwarves as they sat at the tables and eyed their beautiful, idyllic surroundings with distaste and contempt and seemed rather annoyed by the bucolic tunes the elves were playing on their instruments. It was easy to see Thorin Oakenshield's hatred toward elves, as he eyed Lord Elrond with a barely concealed sneer and with resentment. The dwarven king was naturally an angry man, but tonight the air around him seemed to vibrate with the contempt he radiated towards their hosts.

It was this animosity that worried Bilbo, because it could prove dismeritious for his cousin. He felt that his cousin had so easily integrated in the company. That her kind spirit had caused most of the dwarves to abandon their wariness toward her. She had befriended Bifur and the Brothers, and she could often be seen with them. And Bilbo had been happy for her, because for so long it had only been the two of them and while that had been bliss, because he could never have wished for a better or truer friend than Laurel, he was glad that she was befriending others, and that she seemed happy. Yes, Laurel Arya Took, his dear cousin, seemed happy on this journey. And while he was still reluctant in face of the danger they had already faced and were bound to still face, he was glad that she had dispelled all her worries and she was content in the quest.

Yet Bilbo feared that would be bound to change if the company discovered of her heritage. The dwarves were awfully stubborn, and Bilbo worried that they would forget any previous friendly interactions with Laurel, in favor of their prejudice. That their hatred towards elves would make them condemn her. That it would cause Bifur, Fili and Kili to grow contemptuous toward her, especially if their king motivated such a feeling. He knew that this would hurt her, because she had grown fond of them and if they were to forsake their friendship in favor of their preconceived ideas, when she had so often been abandoned already, it would hurt her. He could clearly recall, when he had sat with Gandalf and Laurel during the midday break on their first day in Thorin Oakenshield's company, a little distance from the assembly of thirteen dwarves and the elderly wizard had intently admonished him to keep Laurel's origins concealed. He had at first been highly confused by the wizard's demands, but had acquiesced, albeit reluctantly when his cousin had confirmed the wizard's wishes. Then when he had overheard Gloin and Dwalin's cruel and contemptuous discussions about elves, he had become convinced, that it was truly best if none of the dwarves ever found out that his cousin's mother had been an elf. He had been convinced when he had seen that every dwarf seemed to share a common hatred for the members of that race.

He feared what awaited his cousin if she were found out. He feared that the initial wariness of the dwarves would morph to ill will and perhaps even hostility. Especially on side of Thorin Oakenshield, who seemed to hate elves with the same passion he hated Orcs. Bilbo had after all witnessed Thorin's disgruntlement at their arrival and presence in Rivendell. He had seen the unveiled contempt Thorin had demonstrated toward Lord Elrond and any elves that would dare to come in his vicinity.

Thorin Oakenshield was such an angry, catankerous man. Ever since he had arrived in Bag End, Bilbo had been able to clearly make out the grudging and bitter nature of the older dwarf, in the way his eyes were stormy and dark with resentment at the fate that had befallen him. Bilbo could see Thorin's anger in his purposeful, heavy stride, in the way the dwarven king held himself in a proud and unrelenting posture, yet how, if studied intently, one could still see a slumping to his shoulders, that spoke of an invisible weight the dark-haired dwarf had to carry. All dwarves had shown a joviality, even Dwalin who intimidated Bilbo greatly with his battle-hardened appearance. Yet Thorin had been the only one that had remained callous, indifferent, aloof. Even when the company gathered around the camp fire at night and Bilbo was unable to hide his mirth at their antics, their story telling and their jovial singing, their only sources of divertment on this quest, which Bilbo had gathered was so important to them; even when all were amused, Thorin remained... unhappy. It would be difficult to name a time, when Bilbo had seen Thorin not being angry, when he had seen the invulnerable dwarf king more at ease.

He had occasionally discussed their leader with his cousin, and he had shared his findings with her and she had confirmed that she thought the same. Yet while Bilbo was close to indifferent to their leader's demeanor, he could not help but notice, that whenever him and Laurel discussed the almost imperceptible slumping to Thorin's shoulders, she would conspicuously glance at their leader and she would look at him, with an emotion he could only categorize as sadness. Had he been any other person, he would not have glimpsed, but he had spent more than two decades with this girl and he knew her, perhaps even better than she knew herself and while she would never admit it, he knew that his cousin was all but indifferent to the brooding dwarven king.

Laurel... Bilbo did not know what Thorin made of Laurel. At times there was clear resentment in his gaze directed at her. Especially, when she was in the company of his nephews and their attraction was so blindingly clear by their lingering touches and the blatant affection in their eyes aimed toward the red haired girl. The dwarven king no doubt resented her, because she was providing his nephews with a distraction on this quest that was of insurmountable importance to Thorin. Bilbo had seen the way Thorin had glanced at them during their sword fighting lessons and his gaze had been so ripe with disapproval at their lack of prowess with the weapons, that Bilbo had grown self-conscious and did not long for another lesson of those.

There was no question to him that Thorin disapproved of Laurel and of him, because of the fact that they were hobbits. But while Thorin Oakenshield simply chose to disregard Bilbo, he was more attentive to her, because she was the only one who did not seem to revere him or be intimidated by him and his station. She was not scared to call him out and admonish him, when she disapproved of something he did. And Bilbo knew that this would only cause his dislike of her to strengthen.

But when Thorin looked at her... and he did look at her periodically. It was almost as if he was trying to understand something about her. Bilbo did not believe that it had anything to do with her heritage, if Thorin believed for one second that she could have any elvish blood in her, he would've already shunned and expelled her, of that he was sure.

No, when Thorin looked at Laurel... it was as if he was trying to understand something, like she confused him greatly and he wanted... needed... to understand why she had this effect.

And every so often Bilbo would see Thorin gazing upon his cousin no longer with his stormy, angry gaze, but with an emotion much softer, more tender, and this in turn confused Bilbo and made him highly uncomfortable, so that he had to avert his eyes from the dwarven king, as he observed Laurel laugh at one of the brothers' jokes indulgently.

Those were the only instances that Bilbo would not categorize Thorin as angry and resentful.

And neither could he now, as he saw Thorin Oakenshield look up from his conversation with Lord Elrond, because the latter and Gandalf were looking toward the terrace entrance with small welcoming smiles. He saw how Thorin's eyes widened for a fraction of a second and that his look of incredulity was replaced with one of... intense attraction. And Bilbo started at that and immediately he looked toward the source of this emotion and he was met with the sight of Laurel, as she quickly came towards the empty seat on his right. She was still limping slightly, but the attention to her ankle was deflected by her appearance. She was wearing a gown of silvery-grey fabric, with short, flowing sleeves. She looked clean and was no longer grimy and dusty from the roads they had traveled and her long hair was open and flowed down her back. The vibrant red of her hair stood out against the light fabric of the gown.

Diametrically opposed.

Completely contrasting in a way that was queer, yet ethereal.

She came to sit beside him and gave him a silent smile of greeting and proceeded to eat the food that was put before her with sereneness. And he looked up to have his eyes drawn to the dwarf king, to see had returned his attention to Lord Elrond, who was eyeing the sword that they had found in the trolls' cave. Yet for the rest of the evening Bilbo could not forget the image of Thorin Oakenshield looking at his cousin with longing in his eyes.

* * *

"Our business is no concern of elves." He watched Thorin Oakenshield, as he stood proudly before him with an unrelenting expression on his face, while his scribe Balin, who pacing nervously by his side. He could see that his old friend Gandalf was growing exasperate at the exiled king's perseverance in not accepting elven help on the matter of a map: "For Goodness' sakes Thorin, just show him the map."

Thorin, Balin, Gandalf and him had left after the feast, when Gandalf had stated that he required of Lord Elrond's assistance in a matter of the company of dwaves. Yet, it seemed that only Gandalf believed this necessary, as Thorin self-assuredly stated: "It is the legacy of my people. It is mine to protect. As are its secrets." Lord Elrond knew of the grudge Thorin harbored against elves, his inbred prejudice against Lord Elrond's race which had been passed down to him by his grandfather and father, and which had only been strengthened when King Thandruil had refused help during Erebor's fall.

"Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves.", Gandalf said in a disbelieving tone and clutched his walking stick more tightly, in an unconscious gesture of maintaining his composure against this dwarven king that vexed him. "Your pride will be your downfall." Gandalf stated ominously, warningly, and Elrond saw how Thorin Oakenshield raised his head further at the wizard's words, unwilling to accept any form of criticism. "You stand here in the presence of one of the few people in Middle Earth, who can read that map. Show it to Lord Elrond!"

As Lord Elrond looked at the proud dwarf expectantly, he saw that Thorin Oakenshield had momentarily pursed his lips, before retrieving the map from his armor and stepping slowly, almost reluctantly towards him. The scribe's eyes widened and he made to grab at Thorin and disapprovingly exclaimed: "Thorin, no!" But the dwarven king was not deterred and held out a placating hand, stopping his inferior's actions before moving towards him, looking at him darkly and handing him the map.

He grasped the faded and rough parchment, opening the folded map. He tried to contain his surprise, as he saw the illustrations of the map that clearly depicted the exiled king's old halls. "Erebor?", he asked with surprise and slight suspicion coloring his tone. He did not know what the dwarves' intent with a map of the current seat of Smaug was, but he had a growing suspicion and if he was proven right, he knew that King Thorin's undertakings were most perilous to all of Middle Earth. "What is your interest with this map?", he asked pointedly, looking at the brooding dwarf before him.

He saw Thorin open his mouth to respond, yet he was interrupted from saying a word to Lord Elrond by Gandalf's smoky voice stating: "It is mainly academic. As you know those sort of artifacts sometimes contain hidden text." He looked at Gandaf from the corner of his eyes, willing him to be honest, but seeing no change to the wizard's demeanor, he accepted the explanation and turned from the assembled men, to miss the grateful and relieved look that Thorin gave Gandalf.

He continued studying the map, now bathed in the silvery light of the moon, as it filtered through the archway from the balcony into his old library. "You still read ancient dwarfish?", he heard Gandalf ask behind him, but he did not answer his statement, as he became aware of the secrets of the map and raised the map further into the moonbeams, willing to prove his assumptions correct. "Moon runes.", he stated loudly to inform the others of his findings. "Of course, an easy thing to miss.", Gandalf said in response.

"It's true. Moon runes can only be read in the light of a moon of the same shape and the same season, as the one they were written in.", he said explanatory. He ascended the stair, willing the others to follow him and he stepped out into the balcony and toward the ledge, where a platform was located, which was bathed in the light of the moon and would be suitable to read the map on.

"The runes were written on a midsummer's eve in the light of a christened moon, nearly two hundred years ago. It seems you were meant to come to Rivendell. Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield. The same moon shines on us tonight.", Lord Elrond stated with positioning himself and the map.

As the light of the moon shone on the map, the runes started to glow silvery-blue on the right-hand corner of the map. He proceeded to translate in a loud voice: "Stand by the grey stone, when the thrush knocks and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's day with shine upon the keyhole."

"This is ill news. Summer is passing. Durin's day will soon be upon us.", Thorin stated alarmed. "We still have time. We still have time to find the entrance. We only have to stand at the right place, at the right time, only then can the door be opened.", Balin stated in a placating and assured voice, revealing to him what the true intent for this company was.

"So this is your purpose. To enter the mountain.", he stated grudgingly and worriedly. It was as he had feared. "What of it?", Thorin said with distaste and he answered, handing the map back to the dwarf: "There are some who would not deem it wise." If Thorin Oakenshield opened the door to Erebor, he would be releasing Smaug. Releasing the gravest calamity of this age, who would once more wreak havoc on Middle Earth. A danger, which had been subdued, after the dragon had settled in Erebor and its vast treasure halls.

And as Lord Elrond thought of the dragon Smaug that this company was going to meet head-on, he remembered a vision that had hit him a few days back. The vision of red hair that had become caked with blood. The vision of cornflower-blue eyes looking up at the sky vacantly with all the life sucked out of them. Blood that colored the light brown earth a rusty, foul shade. And Lord Elrond knew that this quest could be her downfall. That this vision of death and despair could indeed come true, was bound to come true if Laurel and those surrounding her continued on this path. And he wondered if he could allow it. If he could allow his friend's daughter to leave Rivendell, knowing that her most likely fate was fatal. Yet he had also seen her joy, her joy at the adventure she was experiencing and he had seen how she cared for the dwarves. She had been annoyed when they had shown a lack of courtesy to him, yet he could still see that she was fond of them. And if she was anything like her mother, which he suspected she was because it was without a doubt that he could say that she was Elauriel's daughter, she would be infuriatingly stubborn and decisive.

She would not be stopped. Knowing this, he suspired and turned toward the invulnerable dwarven king and he said: "Do take care of Laurel Arya Took, Thorin Oakenshield. I would be much obliged if my friend's daughter would be under your care."

At seeing Thorin Oakenshield's confused look, he added: "Her mother was from Rivendell. Elauriel was a very dear friend to me." Still Thorin Oakenshield regarded him with confusion and slight incredulity for a few long seconds, before Elrond saw understanding dawning on his features. Consequently, they contorted with rage and betrayal that was so fierce that Elrond himself had to resist the urge of starting.

"She is an elf?", he heard Thorin whisper so lowly, that he would not have heard it, if he did not possess elvish hearing and he doubted that Thorin had meant for anyone to overhear his whispering. Thorin turned to Gandalf and now all Lord Elrond could see on the dwarves' features was unbridled wrath. The wizard, in turn, was looking alarmed and was looking slightly sheepish at the fuming dwarven king.

"This was your doing!", Thorin Oakenshield snarled at the wizard before him and he proceeded to storm out of the room with his scribe following him, flustered by his leader's sudden change of mood.

* * *

Her evening had been uncommonly calm. After Thorin and Balin had gone off with Lord Elrond and Gandalf, thus ending the evening feast, her, Bilbo and the remaining dwarves had assembled in a chamber in Rivendell and had proceeded to spend the evening, as they had since their ride to Erebor had begun- in song and cheer. They had assembled and had started a fire, which was fueled- much to her chagrin- by the elves' wooden furniture. She had tried to prevent the burning of these ornate objects, yet Bofur had only winked mischievously at her and her protesting and had told her in his accented voice 'They won't miss it!' Initially, she had looked at the dwarves and at their joviality at destroying the furniture of their hosts, darkly, until she had been distracted by the Bofur's jovial ballad, describing a beautiful, bearded dwarven beauty. She had then procceded to enjoy her evening in the dwarven company, as they roasted meat over the fire-something they had complained that had been sorely missing- and as she listened to Dwalin's battle tales or Gloin's description of his wife and young child, who were awaiting him back in the Blue Mountain.

She had enjoyed herself and even regaled the company with a tale of her own when she had been requested to do so by Fili. And it had been met with much amusement and her cousin's chagrin, as she had described how, once upon a time in her fifteenth summer on Middle-Earth, she had convinced Bilbo to burgle one of Lobelia's prized roses with her and had proceeded to run away when the incensed she-hobbit had emerged from her home, leaving Bilbo to take all the blame. She had finished her tale by smiling slyly at her cousin and saying: "And then you say we have never stolen a thing in our lives." "There is a difference between stealing from Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and stealing from a dragon.", her cousin had said, while rolling his eyes good-naturedly and nudging her shoulders with his. "Really?", she had asked and cocked her head in confusion "I don't see it."

The evening had been pleasant and idyllic- almost disconcertingly so.

But then, she heard heavy, pounding footsteps nearing the chamber they were located in. Had she not been convinced that elves were entirely incapable of making such a loud sound, she would have assumed that one of the servants had discovered the dwarves' prank and had come to admonish them. But she was sure that it was no elf, who was storming toward them, making a sonorous melody with their steps, only characteristic of someone consumed with wrath and she was left questioning, who it could be.

Her question was answered when Thorin Oakenshield entered the chamber and he appeared to be vibrating in silent, suppressed wrath, which was longing to be released. His eyes were dark and resembled what Laurel thought a storming sea to look like, grey and brimming with anger. His lips were in a thin line, as if he was trying to physically hold in the tirade that was almost bursting out of him. At first, Laurel thought that whatever the discussion between Lord Elrond and Thorin, its contents had angered the dwaven king. That thought was quickly dispelled, when his eyes came to rest upon her form and he seemed to become even more angry, if that was possible, so that he seemed to radiate this contemptuous feeling and it had her reeling.

Before she could ponder further on his anger, he strode toward her and raised her up by packing her arms in a vice-like grip and yanking her to her feet. The actions were sudden unexpected and forceful, that she stumbled into him. She quickly pushed herself off his form and proceeded to fight his grip, which only tightened as he perceived her struggling. She winced silently, as his fingers dug into her arms painfully and she knew that it would bruise her.

She could not help the fear that arose within her, especially remembering the intensity of his anger. She had always perceived Thorin as a callous, even cold man, but who always had retained his composure, only demonstrating his anger, in severe cases, but otherwise remained aloof. So to see him this discomposed and fiery was disconcerting. She could not even muster up any anger at his handling of her, so surprised was she.

"You deceiving little wench." he hissed at her, as he held her gripped by the forearms. She would have noted their proximity, how their noses were almost touching and he was growling at her, but she did not take notice of that. She did not notice how, his glowering at her slowly morphed into something different, as he took notice of their proximity, which was equally as dark and fiery as his wrath had been. She took no note of how his eyes flickered to her slightly parted lips, before he pushed her away from him, repulsed, and she fell to the floor.

She looked down at the floor, only faintly noticing the throbbing of her still-injured ankle and her knees. She was consumed by her confusion and her pain at his cruelty toward her. She screwed her eyes shut, as the sound of Bilbo and the brothers calling her and Thorin's name respectively was drowned out by the sound of her blood rushing in her ears and the sound of his heavy breathing, signalizing his continued anger. She could feel his heavy gaze on her back, as he said, in response to the sound of Bilbo, Fili and Kili moving to assist her in rising, fearing she was uncapable to do so.

"Don't!", she heard his deep, angry voice warn them lowly, menacingly "Don't! The place for elvish filth is on the floor."

Her growing anger was momentarily dulled by her pain at his discovery. He had found out. Somehow he had found out that which she had always tried to guard so intensely. Unconsciously, she perceived that Balin was explaining what Lord Elrond had revealed to them, in response to Kili's confused questioning. She knew that the dwarves would be looking at her with anger and most likely with contempt, so she kept her gaze on the marble floor beneath her, unwilling to raise her eyes.

"She was always lying to us. The underhanded whelp." she once more heard Thorin, as he insulted her through gritted teeth. He hated her. The pain of this realization left her momentarily breathless. She had never thought that his opinion of her would have mattered to her so greatly that his distaste for her would have been... crushing. She felt an unbidden burning in her eyes and she screwed her eyes shut, trying to surpress that which she could not do. She would not give him this satisfaction, the satisfaction of seeing her cry, her pride prevented her from doing so.

"How could you deceive me so?", she heard him whisper and it sounded almost pained and was so lowly stated, that she doubted he had wanted anyone to heard, but she... her elven hearing grasped it. This statement, compared to the ones previously was harmless, but somehow it had offended her more than the others and she could no longer bear to remain quiescent, complacent.

She turned around and supported herself on both her arms and glared up at him, tigerishly before stating: "You are a hypocrite, Thorin Oakenshield!" It was certainly unwise of her to confront him, especially as his anger at her was still palpable, but she had always been foolish and unheeding of danger, when her fierceness and her determination took a hold of her. She did not look directly into his eyes, those icy-blue eyes that at times appeared grey, which were so cold, but in which she had seen vulnerability; she knew that her courage would leave her if she only saw how palpable his hatred for her was, if those eyes looked at her with contempt.

He did not answer her statement and if she had not declared it loudly, she would have doubted he had heard it, but she was undeterred and continued: "You claim your hatred at elves is due to the lack of assistance they provided you, when Erebor was taken. Yet when they offer you help, when they want to help you... you mistreat them, are cruel to them." She gathered her courage and looked up into his eyes to strengthen her words. She met his cold, angry glare, and continued to gaze at him until he averted his eyes, as if he could not bear to continue looking at her. Panic rose within her, as he looked to the side, his nostrils flaring in rage, panic at thinking he had already discarded her.

Her voice softened, as she said: "You wish to know why I omitted my mother's origins? You would never have accepted me, if you knew. I want to help you go back home and you would have never given me the chance, if you knew." "It was never your place to be!", Thorin stated loudly.

She looked down, no longer willing to confront him with her gaze. "It's still me.", Laurel said lowly only wanting him to hear her words. "It's still me. I have never lied to you about my loyalty to this quest, about my regard for this company." She let her eyes wander from the circular design on the marble floor beneath her hand to his face and she confessed with an honesty and a vulnerability she knew not she possessed: "I have never lied to you about my loyalty... my regard for you."

She wondered if it had been real or if her frenzied mind only imagined the stiffening of his shoulders, as she whispered those words with an emotion so raw. Yet he did not look at her and he was still furious. Defeat took a hold of her, as he stated quietly, being almost disconcertingly calm, especially after having been so fueled with anger: "You will not move on with this company. You will remain in Rivendell with your kin." The last word he had spat, as if it was something poisonous leaving his mouth. He turned from her completely and the actions seemed so final, that she felt panicked and could not help but plead quietly: "Thorin, please!" She did not know what she asked of him, or what the connotations behind her plea had been.

It did not matter. He disregarded her. He disregarded her, as he heard her plea. He disregarded her, as he turned away from her and strode away with a finality to his actions that pained her. He disregarded her, as he exited the chamber and left... left her.

Her shoulders slumped, and as she exhaled, she could not prevent the tears that she had valiantly surpressed, held in, escaping. Her cheeks grew warm with shame and self-deprecation, as she felt the drop of moisture running its valley down her cheek and she lowered her head and wiped at her cheek, in a futile attempt to veil her tears from the dwarves, who had grown deadly silent after her and Thorin's confrontation.

She did not how long she sat there, silently crying, until she felt herself being seized by comforting arms and she moved under that support out of the chamber and toward the one that had been assigned to her during her stay. She recognized the embrace from two decades she had frequently sought it out, those arms which had embraced her so often now and that form, which was familiar to her and always would be. She felt Bilbo lay her down on the downy bed and as he had done so often during their time together, when he knew that she needed to be comforted or when he himself sought the comfort of his best friend, he lay down beside her and put his arm around her. She turned to her side, unwilling to face him and let him see her tears, somehow ashamed, even after he had seen her tears so many times, when she had still struggled with her mother's abandonment of her, when she had scraped her knees, when the teasing of the other hobbit children had been too much for her.

"It was him." she whispered into the darkness of the room, knowing that Bilbo would hear her. "The man in my dreams... it was Thorin." She did not know what had caused her to tell him, perhaps it was because she had always told her cousin everything, because he was her confidant. Perhaps she wanted... needed to get the weight of this fact off her, because it was crushing her: the realization that the man, who had been her hero in her childhood despised her. She felt Bilbo's arms around her tighten, in response to her words.

And that was when she started to sob.

When she realized that her cousin's embrace no longer brought her the same degree of comfort it once had.

When she realized that it was another's arms she longed to be in.

* * *

**Well, shit hit the fan in this chapter. Thorin finds out, confronts Laurel and she backmouths to him. **

**QOTW: What did you think about the confrontation between Laurel and Thorin and would you have cast anyone differently in the PJ movie? **


	18. Courage and Hope

Chapter 17

„_It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul." Invictus- William Ernest Henley_

„Tell me, Gandalf... Did you think these plans and schemes of yours would go unnoticed?", asked Saruman, as he confronted the grey wizard.

The two wizards were sat opposite each other, on an oval table, and while Saruman sat fully erect on his chair and almost seemed to glare down the weathered wizard of his order, the latter, in turn, had his head buried in his hands in exasperation at his superior's questioning. The two elves, Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond, stood in the chamber and circled the two wizards, as they conversed.

The guardians of Middle Earth had been called to the Valley of Imlandris to discuss the fate of Middle Earth, now that the threat of the dragon Smaug was once more rampant, due to Thorin Oakenshield's quest.

In the Shire, the merchants were currently on their wooden wagons transporting their fresh ware of fruits and vegetable to the market of Hobbiton, where, later, the hobbit women would purchase them. In Gondor, the young children were still buried deep under the blankets, their lashes weighed down by sleep's weight, until they would rise and dispell the incantation and proceed with their daily routine. The bakers were warming their ovens. The bladesmiths were polishing their hammers. The fishermen were laying their nets out to go to sea. For all the inhabitants of Middle earth, the day had started as any other would. Little did they know that on an elevated, lofty platform in the elven settlement of Rivendell, the White Council was currently discussing their fates.

„No, I'm simply doing what I think is right.", Gandalf tried to justify his actions and his allegiance to the dwarves' quest.

„The dragon has long been on your mind.", declared Galadriel, the Lady of Lorien in a sonorous, melodic voice. She slowly turned to Gandalf, as she addressed him, the wind played with the golden strands of her hair and her white, flowing gown billowing behind her. She looked at the grey wizard with her silvery gaze and Gandalf straightened in near reverence, as the Lady Galadriel addressed him.

„It is true, my lady.", Gandalf stated gravely with a nod, before shifting his body slightly and once more laying his attentions on Saruman. „Smaug owes allegiance to no one. But if he should side with the enemy the dragon could be used to terrible effect." It was not possible to oversee the alarm that coated Saruman's weathered, yet aquiline features at Gandalf's words. How his eyes had widened and his strong brows had risen in response to what Gandalf said to him. „What enemy?" he wanted to know, wishing to know of any existing or forecoming threat on Middle Earth. "Gandalf, the enemy is defeated. Sauron is vanquished. He can never again regain his full strength.", Saruman declared, no small amount of pride coating his words as he remembered Sauron's downfall and their victory over the Dark Lord of Morgor.

"Gandalf, for four hundred years we have lived in peace. A hard-won, watchful peace.", the Lord Elrond said for the first time during this assembly, supporting Saruman's words, wishing to dissuade his friend off the dwarves' quest, which he believed would only destroy this peace that had been so hard achieved, that'd had such a great adversary in the Dark Power.

"Are we? Are we at peace?", Gandalf asked slightly outraged and glared at the two men. "Trolls have come down from the mountain. They are raiding villages and destroying farms. Orcs have attacked us on the road." The Lord Elrond moved slowly, but purposefully toward the oval table in the centre of the chamber and his gait contained a grace that was almost intimidating when regarded. "Hardly a prelude to war.", the elven lord addressed his friend. "Always you must meddle, looking for trouble were none exists.", Saruman accused the wizard before him with disapproval.

"Let him speak.", Lady Galdariel's voice broke the tension between the men and immediately all straightened at the elf's voice. She moved about the room, looking off into the distance, yet from the wisdom in her eyes it was easy to see that she was attuned to all discussion between the other three members of the council. An aura of etherealness radiated from her as she moved.

"There is something at work beyond even of Smaug. Something far more powerful. We may remain blind to it, but it will not be ignoring us. That I can assure you.", Gandalf stated ominously "A sickness lies over Greenwood. The woodsmen who live there now call it Mirkwood. They say...", his words failed him, as he struggled to find a way to phrase his continued explanation in a convincing manner.

Saruman cocked his left eyebrow and his lips lifted a fraction of an inch into a small, sarcastic smirk before he said: "Well, do not let us stop you now. What do they say?" "They speak of a necromancer who lives in Dol Guldur. A sorcerer who can summon the dead."

Saruman remained impassive at Gandalf's word, save for the glint in his pale blue eyes before he said in complete dismissal: "That's absurd. No such power exists in this world." Gandalf leaned in closer to his superior and observed him, as he became increasingly flustered and said with a nervous hand gesture: "This... necromancer is nothing more than a mortal man. A conjurer dabbling in dark magic."

Saruman then averted his gaze to the left, thus deeming the discussion about the threat Gandalf had brought up finished. Gandalf did not allow himself to be deterred for he himself had had a similar reaction when the necromancer had been first brought up to him by Radagast, the Brown.

He recalled the tale that the brown wizard had relayed to him:

"_The Greenwood is sick, Gandalf.", the raspy voice of Radagast addressed him, as the wizard looked around worriedly, seeing if anyone was overhearing their conversation. "A darkness has fallen over it. Nothing grows anymore." Gandalf moved closer to Radagast, as the other added darkly: "At least nothing good. The air is foul of decay, but worst are the webs." Gandalf straightened at that and questioned him: "Webs? What do you mean?" "Spiders, Gandalf.", Radagast responded with a sneer, exposing his yellow teeth and his nose was scrunched up in distaste, almost as if he had tasted something rotten. "Giant ones. I followed their trail, they came from Dol Guldur." He looked deeply into Radagast's azure eyes, willing to see any signs of deception within them, as he said: "Dol Guldur, but the old fortress is abandoned." He could see no such sign, though. All he saw was honesty and utter fear, as the brown wizard said firmly: "No, Gandalf. It is not." _

_Radagast then proceeded to tell him, how he had followed the giant spiders to Dol Guldur with his sleigh led by his band of roscabel rabbits and of how he had crossed the narrow stone bridge leading to the ruins of the old fortress of Dol Guldur, which had lain abandoned for decades upon decades. As soon, as he had entered the courtyard of the fortress which had been bathed in shade, even though he had arrived at Dol Guldur in the early afternoon, a desolate place where the once strong and imposing walls now lay in shambles and were overgrown with twisting vines, like snakes coiling around them and rotting trees, like carcases lay on the ground of the courtyard, he had felt a power darker than he had ever experienced. He could have only assumed that it was the shadow of an ancient horror. And as he had heard the cringing of stone from behind him and he had turned to see a hooded statue stirring and a fog rising from it, forming the nebulous silvery silhouette of an ancient warrior king, he knew that the horror had the power to summon spirits from the dead. _

_Radagast told him of how the ghost of the king had fought him with a sword and when Radagast had defeated him by knocking him to the ground with his walking stick and the ghost had dissipated into fog, the sword had materialized at his feet. The same sword he now showed Gandalf as material proof of his words. Radagast had fled from the fortress, as quickly as his feet had been able to carry him, when in the corridor to his right he had seen the dark form of an individual. Behind the thorned vines stood the man who was the necromancer. _

„And so I thought too, but Radagast has seen...", Gandalf tried to convice Saruman of this calamity his superior was not willing to recognize. „Radagast? Do not speak to me of Radagast, the Brown. He is a foolish fellow.", Saruman said with outrage and disapproval that such a person would even belong to his order.

„Well, he is odd. I will give you that. He lives a solitary life.", Gandalf tried to appease Saruman. „It's not that. It's his excessive consumption of mushrooms. They have addled his brain and yellowed his teeth.", Saruman continued, his outrage never waning.

Saruman continued to complain about the wizard Radagast, but Gandalf no longer paid any attention to his speech, as soon as he heard Lady Galadriel's distinctive voice in his head, as she adressed him privately: „You carry something with you. It came to you from Radagast. He found it in Dol Guldur." Gandalf could feel her silvery, wise gaze trained on his back and without turning back, he thought, willing her to hear it: „Yes!" „Show me!", she demanded and Gandalf could not deny her, especially as she seemed to be the only one, who was willing to heed his warning.

He brought forth the blade, which he had received from Radagast, which was currently wrapped in a leather fabric. He laid the packet on the table and Saruman's voice, which he had only perceived unconsciously, ceased. „What is that?", Lord Elrond asked gravely, surprised at its presence and he proceeded to unwrap the blade, as Lady Galadriel said: „A relic of Morgor."

Then the short sword of black steel lay before their eyes, openly. Lord Elrond retreated slightly from the table, as if the blade had burned him and he said: „A morgor blade." „Made for the witch king of Angmar. And... buried with him.", the Lady of Lorien added and then she looked at Gandalf disbelievingly, as she proceeded to recount the tale of the witch king of Angmar: „When Angmar fell, the man of the north took his body and all that he possessed and sealed it within the high fells. Deep into the rock they buried him, in a tomb so dark it would never come into the light." Lady Galadriel had seemed to grow increasingly distressed at the course of her tale, becoming convinced of the threat they were now under from the necromancer Gandalf had brought to their attention.

„That is not possible. A powerful spell was laid upon this tomb. It can not be opened.", Lord Elrond stated vehemently, still disbelieving of the relic that lay before him. „What proof do we have that this weapon came from Angmar's grave?", Saruman questioned, still sceptic and seemingly unwilling to recognize the threat that Gandalf warned him of. „I have none.", Gandalf stated. „Because there is none. Let us examine what we know. A single orc pack has dared to cross the borders of the Bruinen. A blade of a by-gone age has been found. A human sorcerer, who calls himself 'The Necromancer' has taken up residence in an abandoned fortress. It's not so very much after all.", Saruman said dismisivelly. Gandalf bowed his head, admitting defeat, knowing he would be unable to convince Saruman, while Lady Galadriel moved away to overlook the valley of Imlandris and the adjoining montainous terrain. „The quest of this dwarfish company, however, worries me deeply. I am not convinced, I do not believe I can condone such undertaking."

Lady Galadriel shifted her body, so that she was slightly facing Gandalf, when he once more heard her voice in her head, as she said in cognizance: „They are leaving." Out of the corner of his eyes, Gandalf looked at the Lady of Lorien, as her eyes widened a fraction of an inch and she stated accusingly, at seeing his nonchalance and his lack of surprise: „You knew." He raised his shoulders slightly, sheepishly and at his antics, the Lady Galadriel gave a small smile to her friend, before she returned her gaze to the landscape before her.

And at that moment Lindir arrived and informed Lord Elrond that the dwarves had gone.

* * *

„You will follow them." He stood before the Lady Galadriel at the balcony, surrounded by the plunging cliffs of Rivendell, after Lord Elrond and Saruman had left the chambers the council had taken place in. She had not questioned him, already knowing his decision, but he felt the need of answering nonetheless: „Yes." „You are right to help Thorin Oakenshield. But I fear this quest has set forth Forces we do not yet understand. The riddle of the Morgor Blade must be answered. Something moves in the shadows, unseen. It will not show itself in our sights. Not yet. But everyday it grows in strength. You must be careful.", Lady Galadriel admonished him and he nodded and then made to move away.

Yet when he had stepped off the balcony, he was stopped by her melodious voice: „Mithrandir, why the halfling and the half-elf?" He looked back at the Lady of Lorien, who seemed like a heavenly vision with the sun shining behind her like a golden, celestial halo around her form.

„I don't know.", he answered honestly. „Saruman believes that it is only great power that can hold it all in check. But that is not what I found. I found that it is the small things, everday deeds of ordinary folk that keeps the darkness at bay. Simple acts of kindness and love. Why, Bilbo Baggins? Perhaps it is because I am afraid and he gives me courage. And in this fading world, where those precise acts of love are waning and darkness rises every hour, I am hopeless. And Laurel Took gives me hope."

He felt her taking his hands into her own and he looked up, as she smiled beatifically at him and said: „Do not be afraid, Mithrandir. Have hope! You are not alone! If you should ever need my help, I will come." He bowed his head in gratitude. Then he felt her hands sliping from his and she was gone.


	19. She follows and treads on my dreams

_Chapter 18_

_„HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths, enwrought with golden and silver light, the blue and the dim and the dark cloths of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams." He wishes for the clothes of Heaven- William Butler Yeats _

_The young dwarf did not raise his head. He was so absorbed by the tale the book, that lay before him on the law wooden table, detailed that he did not perceive the sonorous 'thud' of the door, as it was shut after the entry of an elder looking dwarf. The young, dark-haired, focused dwarf only looked up with his features, that were still round with the softness of youth, when a dark, heavy shadow settled upon him. Disconcerted, with his heavy brows furrowed and his aquiline nose scrunched almost comically, the young dwarf looked up from the story that had ensnared and captured his infantile interest and looked upon the new arrival who had stationed himself between the chair the young dwarf was perched upon and the tall, imposing archway leading to a balcony that overlooked the vast, rocky plains below the Lonely Mountain; in its midst, from this distance miniscule in appearance was the city of Dale, which's bright and colorful markets would have to be bustling with activity at this time of day._

_As the young dwarf looked up and saw the impossing and sturdy silhouette of the individual stood before him, his grey-blue eyes widened momentarily with surprise, before he proceeded to rise, as quickly and with as much grace as he could muster to stand before the elder dwarf, a sight of solemnity and respect befitting the station his elder occupied._

_Eventhough he tried to keep his features cordially neutral the young dwarf could not conceal the glint of infantile delight that had sparked in his eyes the moment he had looked upon the sturdy, majestic form of the elder dwarf, clad befittingly in a heavy, flowing overcoat of white fur, making the man appear wider, bulkier and more imposing. His armour glinted golden beneath the heavy, unmarredly white layer. His features were weathered and hard, almost appearing to be made of stone in its severity. His eyes were of a pale blue that seemed faded, worn away with the long decades this dwarf had spent of this world. Eyes, hard and indifferent, that told of all he had experienced, the sights he had seen, a vast range of different landscapes. Sights that ranged from lush green, rolling downs to barren, deserteous wastelands. Landscapes of ethereal idyllicness to ones that almost seemed haunted in their desolation. His eyes told of diplomatic discussions, of fierce battles, of fields aglow with fire and bustling with a mass of writhing bodies of warriors, as they thrust and parried their weapons, moving in an intricate, almost synchronized choreography of violence, brutality, and of bloodshed. His pale, hard eyes spoke of the bloodshed he'd had to witness, of his loss of friends, loved ones and comrades._

_The young dwarf bowed lowly, in a gesture of respect, before righting himself and silently awaiting his elder to adress him. "What are you doing, Thorin?", the elder dwarf, who held himself in an intimidating and proud posture, befitting that of a mighty dwarf lord, asked._

_"I have been reading about the Cuivienyarna, the awakening of the elves, Gamul Khagam. The first three pairs of elves were awakened by Eru Illuvatar near the bay of Cuivienen during the year of the tree in the First Age.", said Thorin with a childlike pride, wishing to impress the man before him, whom he had a reverence to which only resembled the reverence held towards idols._

_Yet, the elder dwarf seemed just as indifferent, as he had looked previously, unaffected by his grandson's antics, which would have brightened the darkened demeanour of any grandfather with the affection generally Held for their legacy. With his dark, raspy voice, the elder dwarf asked Thorin, as he looked upon him, with slight disapproval, which was not missed by Thorin, who cringed in response to his grandfather's expression: "Do you believe this is a wise use of your time, Thorin? Reading about elves and daydreaming? Do you believe that this is what is expected of the crown prince?"_

_Thorin visibly deflated at his grandfather's words and at the fact that his acquired knowledge had not impressed the man, who was his idol, as he had hoped. The young, dark-haired dwarf looked down, properly castigated and shuffled on his feet. "I asked you a question, my boy.", the dwarf lord stated, his voice as sharp as a knife's edge, undertones of irritation clearly audible. Alarm spread itself in Thorin's grey-blue orbs, which at this time had held an innocence, which would be weathered away and diminished in the decades following as time and life passed him by, bestowing upon him a fate that was shameful to all royalty. Thorin's eyes at this time did not contain his bitterness and the burden, which would fall upon him; yet had he known the events that were yet to come in the future his eyes would not be as untroubled. They would not be as carefree as they seemed now and as calm as the spring morning sea, save for the glee of youth that all infants held at his current age._

_"No, Ghamul Kagam.", Thorin muttered lowly, looking at the wooden floor beneath his booted feet, refusing to meet his grandfather's eyes, fearing he would only vex the elder man further. There was no audible or visible response, as the bearded, silver-haired dwarf looked down at his kin holding himself tall and his posture unrelenting, resembling the rocky, imposing mountain that was his domain. His expression did not change and any other would have assumed the dwarven lord to have been a statue, for his unreadable expression remained on his face stubbornly, almost inhumanly, as the dwarf stood before his grandson, who as of yet possessed none of his grandfather's lack of passivity and aloofness._

_"But, I thought that, perhaps, it would have been wise to inform myself about the elvish culture, as the envoys from Green wood and Lothlorien are arriving in a fortnight for the council.", Thorin stated with more confidence, raising his gaze slightly, wishing to justify his actions and his interest, still intent on not gathering his grandfather's disapproval. Yet the young, dwarven prince had not achieved the desired effect. The invulnerable, proud dwarf lord's stone-mask dissolved, although not in anemity, but in a contemptuous sneer and it appeared, as if he had been deeply offended at his grandson's word._

_His voice remained steady and almost menacingly calm, as he stated, never relinquishing his cool demeanour and his tightly-reined composure: "Do not waste any of your thoughts on those... creatures. They are hardly worth any efforts." Thorin had recognized his grandfather's veiled contempt toward these creatures, recognizing from the thin, hard lines his thin lips had formed and from the momentary glint in his pale, blue orbs that the elder dwarf was conversing with him about something he intensely disliked._

_The young dwarf prince had appearantly gathered his courage and looked up at his grandfather fully, who was a good few inches taller than him. From the inquisitive look in his grey-blue eyes and the slight furrowing of his heavy brows, it was easy to see that Thorin's curiosity had been piqued at his grandfather's words and he asked: "Why? Why is the relationship between elves and dwarves so strained, Gamul Khagam?" The grudge dwarves and elves held toward each other was common kowledge, especially as this hostility had been passed down from generation to generation, with dwarven parents inducing prejudice against elves in their children._

_"They accuse us of the very thing they are guilty of, when their king refused to give us what had been promised to us and was rightfully ours: theft.", the mighty dwarf lord spat, the anger in his pale, blue eyes becoming increasingly more pronounced, as he recalled the events that had caused the strife between the two races, remembering how King Thingol Greycloak of Beleriand had bargained with the dwarves to shape his raw gold and silver, but then had deprived them of their pay in his fierce gread and avaricious insanity._

_Thorin looked up at his grandfather slightly surprised at his loss of composure, seeing his grandfather display more emotion than ever before. He did not consciously take note of it, but at this moment a kernel of resentment had become implanted in him. He had unconsciously adopted his grandfather's prejudice and resentment toward the individuals of the race he had never met. Yet this did not deter Thorin for he thought his grandfather to be the greatest and mightiest leader of Middle Earth, someone he looked up to and aspired to become, he would have done anything to even closely resemble Thror, king under the mountain._

_Thror had been glaring off into the distance, his nostrils slightly flaring. Then he seemed to remember himself and within instances, his cool mask had been returned to its rightful place and he looked down at his nephew once more impassively, before stating with utter surety, which could only be acquired by the most confident and rightful of leaders, something that Thorin had always took note of and admired in his grandfather: "I do not wish to hear anymore reports from Balin, that you have disregarded your lessons and instructions in favor of those silly stories, my boy. How do you hope to be worthy of sitting on the throne of Erebor, beneath the Arkenstone, if you do not take your responsibilities seriously? Do I make myself clear, Thorin?" "Yes, Gamul Khagam.", Thorin muttered, slightly grudgingly, for he loved his old books detailing the most fantastical tales of bravery and of Middle Earth's history. Yet he did not wish to disappoint nor defy his grandfather._

_Thror nodded slightly and his hard lips quirked up an inch into a semi-smile, before the dwarf Lord stated: "That is good. Now... I intend to descend deep into the mountain to inspect the yield of the mine workers. Do you wish to accompany me?" Thorin visibly brightened and nodded his head eagerly. He followed his grandfather, as he exited the chambers in direction of the mines, containing Erebor's precious rocks and gems._

_The book lay forgotten on the table and so it would remain for the decades to come._

* * *

Laurel opened her eyes and was met with the sight of Rivendell as she looked out the tall, arched doorway leading to the balcony. Rivendell was still beatiful without a doubt, especially now as she saw the early morning sun, which was not brightly and blindingly yellow at this time of day, but rose in a warm, orange, pink hue far off in the eastern horizon and coloured the statuesque structures of marble in that same warm shade. The stone of the structures glinted as the light of this heavenly body hit it in a particular manner. The sky was unmarred by any cloud or other unseemly obstruction and was of a pure shade of blue, only alternating to a light purple in vicinity of the rising sun. She had never seen such a start of the day in all her years in the Shire, usually when she awoke the sun was already of a bright yellow colour and already stood high in the sky, though it was still early morning, and illuminated all structures beneath it, so that they reflected the light most brightly. Never had she seen forests bathed in the shade the tall towers of Rivendell threw, as she did now. It was a glorious sight and normally she would have treasured it, but, try as she might, she could not value the landscape before her properly.

She had awoken this morning on a soft, feathery bed and she should have been happy, because since she had joined Thorin's quest and had had to sleep on the cold forest floor, she had longed to be in a proper bed once more. Yet she had awoken in a warm bed, that was too soft for her, she had longed for the dawn's dew laying lightly on her brow and she had missed the early morning symphony of the forest larks, as they awoke with the dormant forest. She had missed the slight soreness of her back, and the sounds of the dwarves as they too awoke and started to gather themselvees for the new day. That all had been missing this morning and she never knew that she would have missed these things so greatly. She had never expected the feeling of yearning that coursed through her, how she longed to awaken her cousin and tease him for his disheveled and slightly drowsy appearance, as he had still not become accostumed to his temporary sleeping arrangements, how she missed the sound of the dwarves' conversation around her as they packed up their things and saddled their ponies, she longed for her wondering with which of the Brothers she would ride today.

But... None of this would happen on this morning and she feared neither on any of the mornings to come. She lay in a soft, warm bed in a spacious chamber, overlooking the elvish structures of Rivendell, a sight her mother had surely gazed and wondered at many times during her life, and she was utterly alone, because Bilbo had already left and with him the Company and... _him. _

She should hate him, for how he had treated her last night, at his mistreatment of her when she had never given him a reason to doubt her. She should hate him, because he had behaved exactly as she had expected and dreaded him to, that he had proven her worst assumptions about him correct. She should hate him, because he had shown her that he would disregard anything, any loyalty she had demonstrated to him because she was an elf. Because anything and everything she did would worthless in his eyes, because her mother had been an elf. She should hate him, because he had proven to be as prejudiced and stubborn, as she had believed him to be. She should hate him, because he hated her.

Yet, she could not. She had not been able to hate him last night when he had called her a deceiving wench. When he had grasped her arms so tightly, that his fingers had dug into her skin and would surely bruise her and he had hissed into her face. When he had let go off her, repulsed, like she disgusted him and he could not stand to be close to her. When he had disregarded any explanation she had offered him and had proven himself to be a hyprocrite. When he had expelled her from the company and banned her from the quest and had ignored her pleading. When he had turned from her, pushed her away and hurt her more than she had thought possible. She should have hated him, especially after she had discovered truly how much power he had over her, when she realized how not indifferent she was to him.

She could not hate him, especially after her dream, especially as the emerald gem still glew hot on her chest as a reminder of her nightly vision. How could she hate him after witnessing his infantile glee at the book he had read and his childlike curiosity at the tale? How could she hate him after seeing the young Thorin Oakenshield straightening his spine and deepening his voice, while telling his grandfather of the story he had read, wishing to impress him? How could she hate him, when she had been submerged in tenderness at the sight? How could she hate him after having seen how vulnerable he had stood before his grandfather and how every emotion that he felt had been so clearly written on his young Features and how human and alive he had seemed compared to his grandfather, a long time ago,_ so long ago_, when she had not even lived? How could she hate him after having seen how his grandfather's disappointment in him had pained him so greatly? How could she hate him after having seen the innocence in his eyes, when he had still been a child?

The previous dreams she'd had about the exiled king had all depicted impacting and poignant moments in his life, mainly the loss of Erebor, a vision that had replayed itself so frequently in her mind, that she could recall the fire smoke from the mountain, the shadow of fire in the night sky and the smell of smoke in the early morning dawn as it stood out against the smell of the dew from the pines. She remembered the roaring of the fire and the swooshing of leather wings and the defeaning sounds of explosion; almost like she had been there herself to experience this, the day he had lost everything and when his life had become a cluster of bitter days, as he longed for all that had been cruelly ripped from his grasp, while he fumed in what he described as "poor lodgings in exile".

At first glance, this scene of his childhood would not seem poignant or worthy of mention in any way. Not compared to the other dreams she'd had, where she experienced losses, which had impacted Thorin deeply, the loss of his home and the loss of his grandfather, the man Thorin had idolized and loved above all else. So this vision of Thorin being scolded as a young child would not seem important in any way, but she knew better. Because she had recognized it for what it was. She had realized what this moment had been. She had realized that this was the moment, Thorin had lost his childhood innocence, that it had been the moment he had shed his youth at a too young Age and had started to become this painfully serious and responsible man he was today.

She could never hate him, not when she knew... she understood why he was as he was today. She could never hate him, because how could she hate one that she had admired and yearned for, for so long?

She screwed her eyes shut cursing the injustice of fate. Cursing the fact that the man in her dreams was him. No, not cursing the fact that it was him, but that he hated her, that he had been bound to hate her, to despise her for her crimes of birth, that he would never regard her in the same, almost affectionate manner that she did him.

Eventhough she had only woken up, she still found herself listless and tired, the events of yesterday, the orcs' chase, her injury, her and Thorin's confrontation, still exhausting her. She closed her eyes, her fatigue rendering her drowsy. And she felt forlorn, a feeling that was previously unbeknownst to her, as she had always retained faith and hope in the face of even the worst situations. She kept her eyes closed and she only longed to sleep.

"Do not lose hope, do not give up, elandili.", she heard a lilting, melodic female voice ring through her thoughts and immediately, she sat up alarmed and looked around the room frantically, searching for the source of the voice. She felt goosebumps spread down her arms, as she perceived her solitary state and she proceeded to cradle her head in her arms, her knees drawn up, fearing for her sanity. "You must not abandon this quest... nor Thorin Oakenshield, poikaer. Do not lose hope. Do not question. All shall be revealead soon." She let the voice wash over her, with its warm pitch and though she knew it to be ludicrous, she felt soothed by the softly accented words and the tender way it spoke to her.

Before she ponder on the absurdity of her reaction to the voice, the door to her chamber opened and a slightly flustered grey wizard entered and proceeded to usher her out of bed, ranting hurriedly that 'she had to get dressed and leave immediately, as the dwarves and Bilbo had already left and she would fall too far behind.' She looked at Gandalf unhappily and stated: "You do not know. I am to remain in Rivendell. Thorin Oakenshield has ordered it so." Gandalf looked at her and shook his head slightly, before stating: "Do not be silly, my dear Girl. You are still under contract and so you must fulfill that which you have agreed to. And you will not be able to do so, if Lord Elrond or Saruman find you. You need to leave, now." "He has discovered that I am of elvish descent. He has prohibited my continued presence in his company. I must respect his wishes, no matter how much it pains me to do so.", she had whispered the last part and was looking down at the white blanket beneath her, her arms around her drawn knees.

She could hear the disappointment in Gandalf's voice, and it only caused her to cringe, as he said: "This is not the child of Benji and Elauriel Took, the fiercest and most headstrong individuals of their race. This is not the girl, who only a short time ago, admonished the king under the mountain for his lack of manners and courtesy." "It is his quest, Gandalf. We must respect his wishes.", she stated vehemently, though she longed to run after the company, but could not gather the courage to do so. She heard Gandalf huff exasperatedly and he said, with annoyance: "His pride shall be his downfall. Thorin Oakenshield is a stubborn dwarf, who does not know what he truly wants and what is good for him."

Any objections on her part were quickly and effectively cut off, as the wizard hoisted her to her feet and proceeded to urge her to pack her things and get ready to leave, not allowing her any further thought on how she would be received by the dwarves.

Yet she also felt her old determination and fire return to her, which caused her to refuse abandoning the quest that she had compromised to and it only rose within her, as she exited her room, Rivendell and climbed up the narrow paths of the steep cliffs, which lined Rivendell.

She was restored to her old spirits, having decided to forgo her early melancholy, when she saw the forms of the dwarves from the company and she started to run toward them, with a courage she did not where she had summoned from and she called out: "Wait!". The first to turn toward her was Bilbo, but then all came to a stop, as she joined their dompany and looked at them, disregarding any dark and contemptuous glare that the majority of the dwarves were sending her way. She had faltered at first, when she had practically felt their hostility toward her, but then she had looked at her cousin and had felt his genuine joy at her presence and she had been reassured.

She drew confidence from Bilbo, as she saw Thorin approach her angrily and as he towered her and snapped: "I thought I told you to remain in Rivendell." "Yes, but I have chosen to disobey you.", she stated and raised the pointed tip of her nose high into the air, as she looked up at him. "I have signed a contract. I will set out to fulfill that what I have agreed to. I will help you.", she stated confidently. He glared at her, and spat: "I need not the help of an elf." There were confirmative exclamations from other members of the company, but she was deaf to them. He turned around, deeming the discussion finished and effictively dismissing her. She smirked at him, though he could not see her, but hoping nonetheless that he would know she was doing this. "That is too bad, because you are stuck with me now. I have promised to help. I have given you my word.", she stated proudly. Knowing she had not achieved anything with her words yet, that she had not changed his opinion in the slightest, she confessed in a soft voice, a broken promise laced in her words: "Thorin, wherever you lead I shall follow." And then an affection, she did not she possessed to such extent for the dwarven king seeped into her words, as she declared: "I would follow you anywhere."

There was no response from him. He gave no outward sign that he had heard her words, except that he stood rooted to the spot for a few seconds longer than necessary. But then he moved, he went onwards and his company followed him, as did she.

He said nothing, as she moved onwards with them, leaving behind Rivendell, which grew increasingly smaller in the horizon. He said nothing, though he knew of her presence, and at this moment that was enough for her.

* * *

**Translations:**

**Khuzdul: Gamul Khagam: Grandfather**

**Elvish (Quenya): elandili- half elf**

** poikaer- pure one**

**So, in summary of this update. White council: Saruman being the evil douche we all knew he was, Necromancer and Gandalf finally explains to Lady Galadriel, why he wanted Bilbo and Laurel on this quest. Laurel dreams of Thorin as a young child and gets a bigger insight to him. After Gandalf's insistence she decides to go after the company and stubbornly refuses to accept Thorin's expulsion of her.**

**I decided to give you guys two chapters this update, since the last chapter was so short and was actually kind of a filler. So here ya go. As always, I thank anyone who has reviewed, favorited or followed and I thank you for your kind words. Please take a few seconds to write me just some words or a few lines telling me how I'm doing, or even telling me how you want the story to proceed. I have a pretty fixed idea plot-wise, but your input is always taken into consideration.**

**The question of the week will be replaced by a poll, so:**

**POTW: What do you think of Laurel's insistence with going on the quest?**

**1) You go, girl. Thorin needs to stop being so goddarned stubborn and get off his high horse.**

**2) Stubborn, almost borderline annoying and obsessive. She should go back to Rivendell and get together with some elf-person (but not Lindir, because he kinda freaks me out) **

**3) I dunno know. **


	20. Tender is the Night

hapter 19

**See important author's note at the end of the chapter**

* * *

_"Already with thee! tender is the night, but here there is no light, save what from heaven is with the breezes blown through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways." Ode to a Nightingale- John Keats_

She spent the next week in a disheartened daze. They had long ago left behind Rivendell with its lush green landscapes and endless forests and were approaching the high pass in the misty mountains. And as the company of the dwarves moved towards this path that ran through the middle of the mountains, the landscape grew increasingly rocky, and arid. No longer could one see the greenery she had grown up with, the rolling downs she had become so accustomed to during her childhood overlooking those in the Shire. Now the landscape was lapidarian, making it appear as if nothing could ever grow on this unfertile ground. The terrain was rough and jagged so that walking on it was a challenge and her feet often slipped on the gleasting, perilous path. The sky above her grew increasingly grey and as they continued onwards to the east, the precipitation grew more insistant, resulting in the company spending their nights in the protection of a cave, usually reticent, because they were too cold and rain-drenched for any cheer or song. It was truly demotivating, especially if Bofur prefered to spend his evenings smoking his pipe and shivering slightly in his wet clothes than regaling the company with a humorous tale stated in his heavy accent. It was disheartening that the brothers had currently shed their mischievious and youthful spirit and had chosen to remain in solemn reticence.

Rain-drenched and disheartened. That is the state she was in as she climbed the beginnings of the mountain paths, minding where she stepped, and followed Thorin Oakenshield's company. It had started to rain soon after they had packed up their provisions and left their shelter of last night. She did not know at which time they had left this morning as the hours of the day now seemed to blend together and she could no longer discern the dawn from the late afternoon, due to the lack of sunlight. The sun, something she had taken for granted in the Shire, but which she now longed for with an intensity she had never thought possible. She missed the feel of the sun upon her cheeks, warming them and causing them to stain red from the heat. She longed for anything that was not this rain that pelted down upon them, unrelentingly, like sharp frigid needles that soaked her to the bone and left her shivering. Her braid hung heavily down her back, her red curls soaked with rain water, as were her clothes which did nothing to warm and shield her from the cold, as she had previously hoped, but only added to her misery. She slung her arms around her form in an attempt to warm herself and to control the tremors that wreaked her form and had become more vehement as a northern wind blew by them in a cruel rush.

She looked up at the sky forlornly and yearned for the sun as its absence was causing her to grow increasingly morose. She felt drab and was assured that she looked ashen in appearance. Perhaps resembling the same disconsolate manner her mother had looked during her last days, something she could still remember so vividly as she had witnessed her mother's descent from a lustrous elf to a drab lifeless hull of her former self. She was sure that her Skin was no longer ivory, but only pale and her hair was coopery and washed out in its appearance. Her eyes were dull and empty, the characteristic glint absent for this time being. So that is how she wandered with the company of Thorin Oakenshield- downcast, ashen and utterly alone.

She was alone. All the other members of Thorin Oakenshield's company were up ahead and she walked by herself, alternating between looking at the ground and looking at the forms of the dwarves who had previously been polite to her but now, in the best case, simply disregarded her. She was alone. In the first few days after they had started their march from Rivendell Bilbo had insisted at being by her side and walking with her, but she had shook her head one morning, she could no longer recall how long ago it had been for time had become obsolete to her, and she had told her cousin to walk with Bofur, with the dwarf that had been so kind as to keep an open-mind toward her cousin and to not doubt his capabilities, before Bilbo had even had a chance to prove himself. The dwarf, who Laurel knew wanted to befriend her cousin and she treasured that. She treasured the fact that her cousin had found another friend, other than her, that there was someone with companiable feelings in this company toward Bilbo other than her and that would look out for him. And she wanted to motivate that friendship, even if Bilbo had at first been reluctant and refused. She had insisted and had quite bluntly told him that she wanted him to walk with Bofur, because he was an important part of the quest, because he needed to integrate himself within the company somehow, because, she had lied to him, because she had wanted to be alone. She had cringed slightly at her cousin's crestfallen expression and she had recalled the days long ago, when she had first arrived in Bag End, when she had disregarded the young fauntling who would become dearer to her than all else and even then she had felt guilty at the glint of disappointment and despondency in his eyes when a young recently-orphaned Laurel had ignored him as he had shown her his maps and been unresponsive; when he had wanted to play with her. Bilbo had been hurt by her insistance that he keep Bofur's company, but he had followed her wishes.

And so she walked alone and was disheartened at the dwarves' behaviour toward her. Perhaps she shouldn't have been, because she had expected it. She had expected the dwarves to act, at best, indifferently toward her. Because she had expected the wariness of the elder dwarves to morph into hostile ill-will after discovering her heritage. She should not have been disheartened at the fact that they were now contemptuous toward her, because she had expected it. She had expected it when she had overheard Dwalin and Gloin's extensive discussion about the short-comings of elves; when she had heard them state with such an abiding hatred how they thougt elves to be underhanded and vicious creatures. So she should not be surprised that they behaved exactly as she had expected them; that they disregarded any previous friendly interactions they'd had with her. She should not have been hurt that Balin, whom she had previously perceived as warm and amiable, who had regaled her and her cousin with old dwarven tales whenever they had asked it of him, now disregarded her or looked upon her with suspicion and slight distaste. She should not have been hurt when last night Dwalin, the first dwarf she had ever met and whose gruff demanor she had secretly quite enjoyed especially when he would detail his tales of battle to her, had exclaimed to her to 'closely watch her back as she slept at night, because many hazards existed for an elf nowadays.' and he had said it so contemptuously and hostilely. She should not have been hurt when even Ori, a Boy she had previously thought so innocent and amenable, had started to ignore her probably instructed by his elder brother to do so, who in turn periodically sneered at her. She should not have been surprised when Fili and Kili had tried to approach her, the day after they had left Rivendell, but had turned away from her when they had perceived their uncle's dark glare as soon as the brooding dwarven king had grasped their intentions. And she most especially should not have been hurt when she recognized Thorin Oakenshield's indifference toward her.

Yet, she was. She was hurt by their mistreatment of her. And it surprised her, because before now she had not even known how important their opinion... his opinion had become to her, a voice inside her hissed. She did not allow herself to linger on that Train of thought too Long. She was hurt and worst of all, she felt alone.

Solitude... that was something she had not experienced for so long now. A hollow, vast feeling that left her feeling frigid inwardly. Ever since she had arrived in Bag End and had been adopted into the Baggins' household, she'd found comforting company in Belladonna and Bilbo. They had accepted her immediately and she would still smile lovingly at times, when she remembered Bilbo's eagerness as he showed her the book that had been his favourite and which his father had read to him and had subsequently become her favorite and which's tales she had read several times during her young years, so that she could even recite her favourites. She remembered, with yearning nostalgia, how Belladonna had always baked her the chocolate buns which had caused her to come out of her room after those first few days of reticence. She had not felt alone for so long, because she'd had them both, or at least Bilbo. She had not felt alone since she had knocked on the wooden door to her parents' chamber, in the hut on the outskirts of Bree, and she had been so desperately scared at the utter silence emerging from her mother's room. She had not felt alone ever since she had run out of Bag End and she had seen her mother's form, a dead-leaf-echo of the beautiful elf she had used to be, disappearing into that huge orb of flamming yellow; that pale and polluted version of her mother, which she had still loved nonetheless, leaving her life completely.

She felt alone now, even when she had almost forgotten how that feeling felt like. But she could not view the emptiness within her as any other thing. She felt alone as she perceived the void, the vacuum beside her.

There had been times during the last few days when she had been sorely tempted to abandon this quest. She had been sorely tempted to return to Rivendell, when she had heard Dori and Oin discussing the short-comings of elves in a loud and booming voice whenever she had been in the hearing vicinity. She had longed to return to the elven city when every dwarf that had previously been friendly toward her had either, in the best case, avoided her glances at them or had looked upon her contemptously and at times hostilely. She had been so close to turning on her heel and walking away from the company... from him when she had overheard Thorin and Balin's conversation, where the dark-haired dwarf had told the scribe to closely watch her, because he deemed her 'untrustworthy'. She had been so hurt and offended by his words that she had longed to simply hurl that blasted contract into Thorin's proud arrogant face and to march back to Rivendell, back to Lord Elrond's care, to the place her mother had lived in for the majority of her life.

Yet she had not, because everytime she had been close to tears at their mistreatment of her and had thought of simply leaving as they wouldn't have even realized she was gone and least of all cared, she would always hear that same melodious voice ghosting through her thoughts. That same warm, yet onorous pitch, that told her to not give up hope and to continue on this quest, which's point she now at times forgot. And even if she had wanted to defy the voice she would have been unable to, because it comforted her. It comforted her in a queer, unreal, wonderful way as she felt alone and hurt and these sensations seemed to consume her.

She walked with her arms slung about her form, and watched the ground she stepped on closely. She was lost in her thoughts and her self-pity, until she heard someone clearing their throat beside her. The raspy, deep sound cut through the haze of quietude that had blanketed her, sharply. Startled she looked up and to the side, to the source of the sound and was met with the sight of Bifur walking beside her and eyeing her with an impassive and unreadable gaze.

She tried to keep her face as blank as she possibly could, while she awaited him to offend her or slight her in any form; the thought of the dwarf, whom she had treasured for his silence and the subsequent soothment she had felt in his company, resenting her, did pain her. She raised her head and stared at him grudgingly, unrelentingly. Her pride did not allow her to show that his coming offense toward her would affect her in any way. So she looked up at him as he continued to look at her with a neutral and almost cold expression and she waited for him to demonstrate the same contempt the other dwarves seemed to hold toward her.

Yet what happened next surprised her greatly. She saw his lips twist into a small, yet sad smile and he signed 'how are you?' in the gestures they had established. She looked at him and her lips parted slightly in surprise. For a second she still awaited him to act maliciously toward her, but then she realized, albeit unconsciously, that he had come to her, because he had seen her solitude just as she had seen his that night around the campfire and he had wanted to show her the same kindness she had bestowed on him back then. At this sign of anemity she could not help but to look down as she felt a stinging behind her eyes and was almost overhwhelmed at his concern for her. She only looked back up at him when she felt his calloused hand on her shoulders, the warmth seeping through her every pore and warming her insides, which had felt so cold previously. She smiled waterly up at his concerned face and whispered warmly: "Much better, Bifur. I am much better now."

They walked in companiable silence. And as he offered her his unrelenting company for the following days, she no longer felt alone.

* * *

_"There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly west. Some courage and some wisdom, blended into measure. If more of us valued food and song and cheer and... love above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell!"_

Her eyes snapped open and she looked up at the inky blackness of the sky in alarm and fear. For a moment she was disoriented and die not know where she was but then, feeling the cold moist earth beneath her back and the warmth radiated from the dying embers of the campfire, she remembered that they had set up camp for the night in the entrance to the misty mountains.

She touched her hand to her glowing cheek and perceived that they were stained wet. She sat up and immediately cradled her head in her hands, as the pounding behind her skull made her dizzy and was almost too intense to bear. She had never awoken from one of her dreams in this state, in such a state of exhaustion. The necklace Lord Elrond had bequeathed to her glew hot on her chest and she longed to rip it off her neck violently as she remembered the contents of her dream, blaming the emerald gem for what she had witnessed.

A shiver raced down her spine as she recalled Thorin on his deathbed. His proud, strong form laying battered and broken, so broken, his eyes dull and lifeless and remorseful. His last words echoed through her head and, no matter how hard she tried, she could not forget his broken whispering; the whisper of a man, who had just recently lost something, everything. To see Thorin Oakenshield in such a state had felt to her as if having her own heart ripped out of her chest would have been easier to bear, than that... than watching him die.

It frightened her that her dream had affected her so greatly. She knew it was unwise to disregard her dreams, especially after she had found out that the man in her dreams truly existed in Thorin Oakenshield and that her nightly visions were not machinations of her overimaginative mind, but had indeed occured. But never had she felt such premonition, as she did now after her dream, after this vision that had not yet occured. She did not want to think that she could have possibly dreamt of the future. That this event, which had scared her so greatly could indeed occur. And she did not want to think of how it had felt, that it had felt as if she herself was dying, as she watched the life slowly, painfully slowly, seep out of his grey-blue eyes.

She most especially did not want to reflect on her reaction to his death- imagined or not, because saying that it had not affected her would be so blatant a lie and confessing it had would carry too great an implication. She did not want to think about the connotations especially not now that she knew he hated her. She did not want to think about the fact that it was rawfully obvious that she cared for him. She cared for Thorin Oakenshield, in a way she did not yet understand. It was not that infantile naive reverence she'd held toward the heroic motif in her dreams. It was not the admiration of a child toward their youthhood hero, toward their idol. It was... it was more mature, more real... so real. She sighed and drew her knees up to her chest before laying her cheek on her kneecaps and looking out into the horizon, which was gradually turning a lighter shade of blue as morning approached.

She did not want to think about her realizations after that horrible dream. She did not want to think about the realizations her imaginings about Thorin's death had brought her and she did not want to think about the fact that she cared for a man, whom she had previously given up on. She snorted in soft amusement at the direction of her thoughts. She'd never had any part of him, how could she give him up? She shok her head slightly at herself, in humourless mirth. She had been so adamant on giving him up earlier, so decided, so obstinate. Once more he'd come crashing through the thin barriers that she'd worked so hard to erect. "Oh Thorin," she whispered lowly to herself.

Then she felt the warmth of eyes on her and she looked up to meet the gaze of a pair of grey-blue eyes, staring at her. She now realized that he had been observing her since she had awoken. He had been observing her from the way her hair fell over her back like a sea of red, how her cerulean eyes stared off into the distance in silent melancholy, to how her chest heaved and her rosy lips parted an inch as she sighed.

She held his gaze, willing, hoping that she would be able to identify any Emotion; that she would be able to read him. She held his gaze that seemed to penetrate through her. But she was to once more be disappointed, because he looked at her and she once more hated him because she could never figure him out: he was concealed from her... completely.

She felt an exhaustion take a hold of her. She was tired. She was tired from her dream. She was tired of knowing he hated her, while she... oh what had she gotten herself into? She was so tired of everything... of him. So she broke their gaze and shook her head slowly, but decidedly. Then she lay back down and willed sleep to come. Yet the sky turned from inky black to the blue of her eyes and none did come. The world shifted, morphed and awoke around her. Changed so completely from dusk till dawn. Yet the only thing that remained the same was the necklace that glew hot on her breast.

* * *

**AN- I have an important announcement to make and am enjoying the opportunity of my posting of the newest to inform you guys that I am in the process of writing a new Guy/OC fic. This monday I went to a lecture on the Italian Poet Dante Alighieri and his relationship with Beatrice Portinari and her role as his muse and as a Symbol of courtly love. This week I have spent obsessed with all things concerning their lovestory and the divine Comedy and it has inspired me to write a new story on Guy.**

**I will be continuing my Hobbit Story, because based on the Feedback I have been receiving you seem to be enjoying it. I know it is certainly ambitious to write two stories at once, but my muse just won't leave me at peace and I have realised, as I was writing the next chapter of SDOGH that it was affecting my writing. **

**My new Guy Story will be completely AU, I will only use a few components the BBC show presented. I would appreciate it, if you would check it out and give me some Feedback. The first few chapters shall be posted, the latest on Sunday. **

**QOTW- Is there anything that is bugging you about this Story, such as the characterization or anything else?**


	21. The World will end in Ice and Fire

Chapter 20

„_Some say the world will end in fire, __s__ome say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate __t__o say that for destruction ice __i__s also great __a__nd would suffice." F__i__re and Ice- Robert Frost_

The rain was pelting down heavily upon them, as they made their way through the Misty Mountains. After long, exhausting days of wandering through the most extraordinary landscapes, roaming an increasingly arid and rocky terrain, which slowly morphed into the arctic and lapidarian bailiwick of the mountains which they now found themselves crossing to reach Rhovanion. They would first have to cross the Green Woods, where the woodelves and their King Thandruil resided as Thorin had told them begrudgingly, before they reached Lake Town, which lay by the lake of Esgaroth and by the Lonely Mountain. A long journey still lay before them and Bilbo feared that from now on, ever since they left the hospitable halls of Rivendell, their venture would only become more precarious in its nature. And he was not being contradicted by the heavy storm that was upon them, with its flashes of lightning like blazes of fire from the heavens and its thunderous growls like the roar of omnipotent brutes. The rain that was being lapidated upon them were like biting, salient needles and its cold penetrated to their bones. It was also rendering the narrow, jagged path beneath their feet alarmingly unctuous. Bilbo watched his feet carefully as he treaded the waxy stones and pressed himself planate against the rough stone of the mountain, holding on to the jutting stone like a lifeline. He had dared to gingerly look over the edge of the path when they had first ventured through it and the sight that had met him had left him dizzy and petrified. He feared falling into the endless and gaping abysm he had glanced into, ravenous like the dark mouth of a dismaying behemoth.

He walked carefully but surely between Dwalin and Bofur, wishing to escape as quickly as possible from the hankering cliff. At the front of their wary and rain-drenched procision was Thorin Oakenshield, their very own leader, who seemed undeterred by the avaricious hunger of the cliff-edge he toed, and who lead them deeper and deeper into the range of the Misty Mountains through plunging valleys and twisting, narrow paths undeterred by his kin's palpable alarm.

He looked over his shoulders and had to squint momentarily, as the rain ran a dale down his eyes. Through his water-impaired vision he saw his cousin at the back of the company, looking similarly alarmed as wet strands of hair, which had escaped her braid, clung tightly to her face and he could see her knuckles turning pale from her grip on the mountain stone. Bifur, who had spent the last few in Laurel's company, walked right behind her clutching his wooden axe tightly in both hands, as if he could protect her from falling with his weapon. Bilbo turned his gaze back to the front and once more devoted his attention to his own walking, having been appeased that his cousin seemed to be safe for now. He was thankful that from his expression, Bifur had seemed intent to protect his cousin and that he had remained loyal to the friendship between them, despite Laurel's heritage. He had been so thankful that his cousin's melancholic and mournful demanour had been somewhat lessened after Bifur had approached her and had then proceeded to walk with her during their wandering and sit beside her during the nightly campfire. They made an interesting pair the both of them, Bilbo had thought last night before the company had entered the Misty Mountains and had set up camp on the last verdant patch they had been able to find before the landscape had become snowy and austere. They made an interesting pair, Bilbo had thought affectionately while he had sat beside Bofur and while the spirited dwarf had talked to him about something, he had watched the red-haired girl and the reticent dwarf sitting beside each other silently, occasionally gesturing with their hands and sitting closely together, almost as if they wanted to confirm the presence of the other. He had been grateful to Bifur, because he had been the only dwarf that had not forsaken his cousin for the sake of the dwarfish prejudice against elves; because he had held steady to their friendship; because he had ignored the dark and accusing glares that, principally, Thorin and Dwalin had sent in his direction and had smiled back at Laurel, when she had gestured something that seemed to amuse them both.

His thoughts on the friendship between his cousin and Bofur's cousin were cut short, when he felt the weathered stone beneath his feet give out and he stumbled forward. As he was walking horizontally and pressing himself flush against the wall of the mountain, he almost fell face forward into the dark abyss he was so frightened of, but was stopped from doing so, when both Dwalin and Bofur put a steadying arm on his torso, preventing him from tumbling down the edge. He felt himself being roughly yanked back and at the impact of his back against the rough stone of the mountain he felt the air being violently pushed out of his lungs. But his enormous gratitude exceeded his slight chagrin at Dwalin's handling of him.

"We must find shelter," Thorin bellowed over his shoulders, wishing to be overheard against the clamorous symphony created the rain as it pounded on the rock and wore it away and by the rumble of the thunder in the sky above them.

"Look out", Dwalin shouted looking with alarm and disquiet into the distance. Disconcerted at seeing the near fright in the warrior's face, Bilbo looked in the same direction as Dwalin was and squinted his eyes, as he saw a silhouette of something approaching them at a distressing speed. As the object moved closer, he briefly recognized that it was a huge boulder and the next thing he perceived was a deafening explosion coming from somewhere above them, before they were bombarbed by a downpour of edgy and rigid rubble. He and the rest of the company screamed out and crouched low, with their arms shielding their vulnerable forms, trying to protect themselves from the attack of the rocks.

"This is no thunderstorm," he heard Balin say ominously in cognizance. "This is a thunderbattle!", the white-bearded dwarf exclaimed in distress, looking at something in the distance. Bilbo followed his gaze only to see that the peak of what he had assumed was a mountain was stirring, almost as if the mountain itself was being shook by the force of the storm. But then the silhouette of the mountain slowly morphed into something that resembled more the form of a human, and then the giant took hold of another gargantuan rock, dislodging it from its seat before hurling it in their direction.

From beside him, he heard Bofur call out, his voice more serious than Bilbo had ever heard it: "Bless me, the legends are true. Giants. Stone giants." Bilbo did not get a chance on dwelling further on Bofur's words, rather than hearing them and recognizing them as true, before he felt the ground beneath his feet move. Dwalin, Bofur and him pressed themselves more closely to the rock, as the stone path they were stood on crumbled and get thinner and they were left standing on a thin strip of stone.

He looked to the side as the outcry of the dwarves grew even louder and he saw that what had caused the uproar was the rift that was forming in the path a little behind him, which grew until it separated half of the company from the other. He was left to watch helplessly, as his cousin was separated from him by the gap that grew bigger every passing second. He was left to despair, as he watched his cousin's feature contort in panic and he heard her shriek his name, before she tried to fling herself over the edge to go to him and was only prevented from doing so by Kili's hold, who in turn was looking at his older brother frightfully as he was separated from him. He looked up to see that the mountain they had stood on was in fact another giant, which had only just risen to partake in the battle.

As the battle raged, the ledge they stood on started to move at a breathtaking speed and he continued to look over to the side, as the other half of the company grew smaller and smaller, as the distance between them increased. He was rattled when the ledge they stood upon impacted with another mountain that stood still momentarily and Thorin Oakenshield urged them to move from this precarious edge to the one that was more stable. He quickly followed their leaders orders, while the battle of the giants raged on above them.

Then he saw the head of the giant they had stood on dislodging itself from its shoulders after the other giant had delivered a mighty blow to it, and like the boulders that they had thrown previously. The head sailed through the air before it impacted with the mountain above them and exploded into smaller fractions of itself, which rained down upon them.

The ledge of the headless giant, which the other half of the company and most importantly his cousin still stood upon swayed dangerously back and forth, before it passed by them, so that he could glimpse a fleeting look of his cousin's alarmed face, while she stood between Kili and Bifur. Then the next thing he saw, and the sight made him grow cold with dread was how the ledge approached the rock of the mountain, a good distance before them at a dashing speed and crashed into the stone with a mighty roar. The giant fell into the plunging abyss and there was no sight of any of the dwarves form upon its ledge, as Bilbo watched its descent with panic.

"No!" he heard Thorin howl beside him like a wounded animal. With nimble moves, the leader of the dwarves moved towards the area of the impact, fueled by his fear of what he would find there. "No!", he continued to scream, most likely in fear of his nephew's life.

Ice spread like a wildfire through Bilbo's veins and he feared for his cousin's fate. He imagined what most likely had happened to her and at the grotesque images his mind conjured, he gave a shrill outcry of pain and bounded after the similarly distressed dwarfish king._ I knew we should have stayed in Bag End. If something happened to her, if I lost her... I will never forgive myself_, Bilbo chanted in his head like a sacrilegious prayer. He had lost every sense of fear and was fueled by his need to see her, to confirm if what he dreaded had truly occurred.

He felt his form slump with relief and joy, when he rounded the corner and saw her sitting on a the path, her hand clutching her forehead, appearing slightly disoriented but otherwise well, as she allowed Kili to help her to her feet. His relief was so great that he momentarily forgot where he was and the continued danger from the glassy surface he walked on, that he bounded over to her.

But that was a mistake, as it soon turned out, because he felt himself slip on a particularly soapy surface and then he felt himself tumble over the edge and none of the others came to help him, because their attention was solely on the others, whom they had shortly ago thought perished. He felt the air rush by his ear and by a stroke of luck, he was able to stop his fall by grabbing onto a jutting rock. He hung onto his lifeline with all his might, even when he felt the uneven surface cut into his palm.

"Where's Bilbo?", he heard the dulcet voice of his cousin call out over the clamour of the dwarves. The noise died down for a second and then he heard Bofur's distressed voice, as he too called out: "Where' Bilbo? Where's the hobbit?"

He had been silent, since his fall. The shock of what had occurred rendering him speechless, but self-preservation kicked in and he started to grunt and call out, in hopes of making the dwarves quiescent of his whereabouts. "No!", he heard Bofur's accented voice mutter, as he seemed to grasp what had occurred and then Dwalin's throaty voice commanded: "Get him!"

He could no longer keep his grasp on the rock, as his palms were throbbing at the pain inflicted upon them. He felt his grip slipping and he fell once more, just as he saw the distressed faces of Bofur and Laurel over the edge of the cliff, as they looked down at him distressedly. He managed to grasp another jutting rock with his right hand, which hurt less and he stared up wide-eyed at Laurel's frantic expression, as she called out his name and outstretched her hand, urging him to take it. He stretched his arm up, but could not grasp her helping hand, as his arms were too short. His fingertips were left to ghost across hers like the most cruel and algid of winter gales. He saw her faces contort in agony, and with alarm he saw that she was moving impossibly closer to the edge in a desperate attempt to reach him. She seemed to be only stopped from risking her life and tumbling down the edge for him, something he feared that she seemed quite content on doing for him, by Fili and Kili's constraining hold on her, as they called out her name.

"You will kill yourself!", he heard the thundering voice of Thorin Oakenshield, as he addressed his cousin and looked at the red-haired girl with anger and disapproval prevalent in his eyes. She looked away from him momentarily and toward the dwarven king, shaking with agony and despair and she screamed at him with a breaking voice, seemingly deranged by her worry for him: "So be it! If he dies... nothing will bring back what I've lost. I love him more than anything else." A deafening silence followed his cousin's words, which was only broken the unending sound of the rain as it pounded onto the rock.

He was about to call out to her and tell her to get away from the cliff, when he saw Thorin fling himself over edge and skillfully climb down to him, before pushing him up towards the arms of the waiting dwarves, who hoisted him to safety. While doing so, he heard an alarmed outcry from the dwarven king and saw that Thorin had slipped and was only prevented from falling off the cliff-edge, because Dwalin had been able to grasp his hand and pull him up at the right moment.

He was relieved to once more be on safe ground and to not be experiencing the sensation of having a vacuum beneath your feet. He scrambled away from edge of the cliff and was immediately seized by his cousin into an embrace so tight, that it was almost painful. Yet, he welcomed the pressure of her arms around him, because he thought that he had lost her and only now did he become fully aware that this was not an extraordinary occurrence and that everything they were on this quest he was risking his life and the life of his dearest friend, something which was invaluable to him. He felt her trembling in his arms, as she buried her face into the crook of his neck and he was not sure if the humidity he felt there was due to the rain. He held her tightly to him like a desperate man and to assure her of his presence, of his survival he kissed the crown of her head before laying his cheek upon it and exhaling heavily.

He felt someone pat him gently on the back, before he heard Bofur's voice, as he said in obvious relief: "I thought we had lost our burglar." He looked up and was about to look over his shoulder, grateful for the dwarf's friendly gesture, before he was stopped from doing so, as he was caught by Thorin's contemptous and dark glare at him, as the king under the mountain breathed heavily and scrambled to right himself.

"He has been lost ever since he left home. He should never have come. He has no place amongst us.", Thorin spat and sneered at him, angrier than Bilbo had ever seen him, angrier even than when he had found out that Laurel was half-elf, as he looked upon the embracing hobbits with disgust. Unwillingly, Bilbo felt his features contort with hurt and for the first time he became aware that he was not as indifferent to Thorin Oakenshield's opinion, as he had liked to believe up until now. He was hurt that their leader was unwilling to recognize any of his efforts up until now and there was just something about Thorin that inspired... loyalty and the wish of earning his good opinion. And now he understood his cousin's insistence with continuing on this quest and her growing loyalty and regard toward the dwarven king.

Yet, regard was probably the last thing she felt, as Bilbo felt her grow rigid in his arms like the most unyielding stone, which contrasted so greatly with her usual warmth and softness. He felt her lift her head from the crook of his neck and saw that her eyes were glowing brightly and her nostrils were flaring and he had to resist the urge to flinch away from her, because he had never seen his cousin look so deadly wrathful. But then, her features rearranged themselves and she grew cold, so cold, and Bilbo was unsure if he did not prefer her fiery rage to her icy expression. He saw her turn her head slightly and then she hissed at Thorin Oakenshield, who had turned his back to them, in search of shelter: "Cruel, hateful man!"

Bilbo shuddered as her words were laced with a finality that even he felt seeping through his bones. A finality of someone, who had grown sick of something, of someone who had given up. He saw a slight stiffening to Thorin's shoulders and he no doubt had overheard her. He observed as Thorin turned back toward them and looked at the girl, who had turned from him and was still in Bilbo's embrace. Bilbo tightened his arms around his cousin in an unconscious, protective manner, as he saw Thorin sneer at her disdainfully and angrily, so angrily that Bilbo feared that Thorin would strike her for the insult she had offered him. Yet there was something elsein his grey-blue eyes, that Bilbo only understood after the king had gone off in search of shelter with his most loyal followers in tow. Bilbo held onto Laurel tightly as the rain pelted down upon them, pondering on the flash of hurt in Thorin's eyes, as he had looked at the red-haired girl.

* * *

He could not sleep. He looked up at the damp ceiling of the cave in the mountain, that the company had found refuge in. Laurel was lying on his arm and had her arms slung about him protectively, as she slept deeply, seemingly exhausted by the events of today. He wished that he could share his cousin's fortune, as he felt the steady rise and fall of her chest against his side, but his mind was racing with thoughts.

Thoughts about his near demise.

Thoughts on him almost losing his lifelong companion.

Thoughts on Thorin Oakenshield's lack of respect toward him.

And he was tired. He was tired of always worrying, albeit until now unconsciously, for his and Laurel's safety. After the incident of earlier, he had been shocked into the realization that no quest, no fulfilling of their dreams, no amount of gold and riches would ever compensate for what he stood to loose on this quest. That he and Laurel should not be risking their lives for a man, who would never recognize their efforts, because of his stubborn prejudice. He was tired of this quest. And he had come to a decision.

He gently rubbed the arm Laurel had slung over his waist and her eyes flickered open to reveal slightly disoriented blue pupils. She shifted slightly before her gaze returned to him and she said with her voice raspy from sleep: "Bilbo, it's the middle of the night. What is it?" She circled her shoulders, wanting to get comfortable on the hard ground she slept on.

"I'm going back to Rivendell, Laurel. I want you to come with me," he whispered to her and in response she looked at him with confusion, before she sat up in a speed that was astounding for one that had been half-asleep shortly ago. He sat up and looked into her eyes firmly and deeply, before she broke their gaze and whispered lowly: "But Bilbo... We promised." He could not help the tendereness that rose in him at the sight of her, looking so confused and helpless, resembling the child he had immediately taken to, when she had first arrived in Bag End.

"It does not matter, Laurel. It will not matter to them. They only view us as a burden." He saw her face contort with hurt at his words, but at the slight nod of her head, he saw that she had perceived them as true. She stood up hurriedly and with silent moves, she proceeded to pack up her things, while Bilbo followed her actions.

They both stood quickly and with immense care, they made their way through the mass of sleeping dwarves that lined the path to the arched entry of the cavern. So focused were they on their task of leaving quietly and not drawing the attention of the dwarves on them, that they did not see Thorin's grey-blue eyes open, not having been asleep and overhearing their every move, and he followed their sneaking forms, as they tip-toed through the cave.

They were just about to exit through the arch, when they heard Bofur's accented voice questioning: "Where do you think your going?" They stood quietly, as they heard the dwarf scrambling to his feet and in their direction.

"Back to Rivendell.", Bilbo turned and looked at the dwarf he had befriended, darkly. "No. You can't turn back now. You are part of the company.", Bofur whispered flusteredly, intent on stopping the hobbits from leaving.

"Part of the company?", he heard his cousin whisper beside him outraged. "I am an elf, remember? Bilbo has been lost, since the moment we have left Bag End. We have no place amongst you." As Laurel used the words, so cruelly spat by Thorin, Bofur looked down guiltily, before he whispered: "It was wrong of us... of me to mistreat you so, lass. Especially when you have never given us a reason to distrust you." His cousin, who had stood proudly in her righteous indignation, deflated visibly at the dwarf's apology, and her expression of outrage softened into one that was sadder, but more sympathetic.

"Thorin said I should never have come and he was right. I am not a Took. I am a Baggins. We both are. We should never have run out of our front door.", Bilbo stated sadly. "You are homesick. I understand.", Bofur stated sympathetically and at the dwarf's understanding Bilbo only grew more indignated and before he could ponder on his words, he exclaimed: "But you don't. You don't understand. None of you do. You are dwarves, you're used to this life. Never settling anywhere, never belonging anywhere." He immediately cringed when he saw Bofur's hurt expression and he cringed, when he saw his cousin looking at him incredulously and accusingly, silently telling him that he had gone too far.

"Forgive me," Bilbo muttered and looked down ashamed. He glimpsed how Bofur smiled at him sadly and shook his head before stating: "You are right. We don't belong anywhere. I wish you two all the luck in the world. I really do." Bofur came toward them and lay his hands on Laurel and his shoulders, before smiling at the two hobbits tenderly. He saw Laurel look at Bofur, who had grown uncharacteristically grave, before she nodded tightly at him and grasped Bilbo's hand in her own, signalling that they would now depart.

"What's that?" Bofur asked puzzled, just as Bilbo and Laurel had turned to leave. He looked back at the dwarf and saw him looking at the sword he had received from Gandalf, confusedly. They same sword that was of elvish make. The sword that would glow blue, if it detected goblins or orcs in its vicinity. The sword that was glowing blue now.

The only word that ghosted through Bilbo's thoughts, as he drew the sword from its sheath and his features were illuminated by the glowing blue light was 'Goblins'. Then a pained moan sounded from the cave, followed by Thorin's deep voice, as he ordered the dwarves to 'Wake up!' The next thing he knew was that the company of dwarves with him and Laurel had fallen through the sandy ground of the cave into the depth of the Misty Mountains.

* * *

Author's Note:

This chapter: Thunder battle, Bilbo being scared because he thought he lost Laurel, Bilbo being clumsy, Laurel trying to save Bilbo and putting herself in danger, Thorin rescuing Bilbo, Thorin being rude (oh is that some jealousy I see there king under the mountain?), Laurel being fed up at Thorin, Bilbo wanting to go home, Company falling through the ground.

I was really excited to get this chapter out and I would like to thank you for the Kind Reviews last chapter. You, my faithful Readers, are awesome.

BTW- I have just posted the first chapter of my new Guy/OC Fic 'Tears In Heaven'. I would totally appreciate it if you guys checked it out and perhaps gave me some Feedback in the form of Reviews (*NudgeNudge*)


	22. Taper in a tempest

Chapter 21

„_Oh plunge me deep in love - put out my senses, leave me deaf and blind, swept by the tempest of your love, a taper in a rushing wind." Sara Teasdale- I am not yours_

They now stood before the goblin king. Laurel reflected on how they had gotten here and how they found themselves in this precarious situation. A situation which she knew, without a doubt, was infinitely more serious than the trolls they had faced during the first leg of their journey.

They had fallen through the ground of the cavern after the sand, which covered it, had seeped away and had revealed trap doors, which had tilted beneath their feet, causing the assembled company of Thorin Oakenshield to fall down a plunging abyss. Ever deeper into the mountain they went, until she had landed beside Bilbo, on top of the pile of dwarfs. They had found themselves on a wooden platform surrounded by great, sharp spears, almost making the circular area appear like a prison. She had quickly stood and looked at her surroundings and had seen that they were indeed caught in the depth of the Lonely Mountains, with plunging rocky cliffs surrounding her from every angle. The platform made from old wood groaned beneath the weight of the assembled dwarfs and she had quickly scrambled off the pile in fear that the wood would not hold beneath them.

Yet she had not had enough time to ponder too greatly on their location, because almost immediately after the dwarfs had recovered their bearings, her pointy ears had twitched, as far off into the distance she had heard the sound of an approaching congregation, as they ran toward them, snarling and shrilling with malevolent fiendish delight. She had looked into the direction the sound had come from and was met by a sight that was so gruesome it had caused a shiver to run up her spine and dread to pack her tightly. An assemblage of goblins had come charging at them- at their prisoners, at their prey, running gracelessly, tripping over their own feet as they were consumed by their enthusiasm concerning the horrendous deeds they would inflict upon their prey.

The goblins had charged at them at a speed that had made it impossible for the company to draw their weapons and to wield any type of protection. They had charged at them hissing and gnarling in vicious delight, with their foul yellow teeth barred in a triumphant ugly sneer and their warty faces contorted with calamity. They had come charging at the company in a great number, which had soon overpowered the few of them that were present. The goblins had jumped on them and tore them away from each other, as they had shrieked high-pitchedly into her sensitive ears and she had almost become dizzy at the dismal sound these horrid creatures produced. Some dwarves had tried to fend off the enemy, delivering blows to them that had been so forceful that some of the goblins had gone toppling down the edge. Yet more and more goblins had arrived to replace the fallen ones and soon the company of Thorin Oakenshield had been engulfed by a sea of warty, lumpy skin and in the smell of foul decay.

She had tried to free herself of the goblin's clutches, who had her gripped by the waist and was carrying her like a sack of flours. She kicked out her legs and struggled, but the goblin's hold on her was like the most unyielding steel and soon she had tired herself and was left to hang on the goblin's arms with defeat as she looked upon the interior of the mountain, while the goblins took their prisoners deeper and deeper into the tight clutches of their realm. She had seen the unrefined and unsteady constructions of the goblins, as the repugnant creatures hung off them and watched the procision of their kin who carried the dwarves and her, catcalling and shrieking and she felt queasy, as she pondered what fate would befall her, them, in the hands of these beasts. She could not help but recall the description she had once more about goblins in her and Bilbo's book. She had felt afterwards felt so scared at the image the words about the goblins had conjured that she had been unable to sleep for half the night and had later crawled into Bilbo's bed and had buried herself underneath his covers.

They had been described as big, ugly creatures with yellow eyes, who were wicked, cruel and bad-hearted. Their race was described as very barbaric and tribal and they had spread through Middle Earth after Morgoth, the first Dark Lord had been taken in chains to Valinor. So the Orcs and other foul creatures had been forced flee from Angband and their kingdoms had spread throughout the many mountains of Middle-Eart. Laurel's eyes had widened in realisation, she had remember having read about Goblin-town, a settlement near the High Pass above Rivendell. This place was probably that very same gathering of goblins, which had frightened her so greatly during her childhood years.

Yet she had not had too long to ponder on her discovery, when the goblins put her down roughly and she was left to stand between the cluster of the dwarves, as they stood before the Great Goblin. The first moment Laurel had laid eyes on this damned creature, she had been seized by disgust. He was uglier and more riddled with deformations than his followers, who appeared riddled with disease and sported boils, pimples and warts on most of their skin, and were grotesque with their skewed eyed and their crooked-growing fingernails. Yet the Great Goblin was more grotesque than all the goblins assembled around them. The goblins of the High Pass were stunted and appeared no larger than a dwarf or a hobbit. The goblin chieftain towered over them, menacingly, and seemed to be man-high. He was a beastial creature, bulky and fat, with a bulbous, toad-like head, horns and a canine-like nose. He had a huge, bald head with a few strands of white hair, which hung limpishly upon his skull and a great goiter, which was riddled with lumps and red, angry warts, and it swung around like the pendulum of the grandfather clock, that Hamfast Gamgee had inherited from his father and which stood proudly in his hobbit hole. He carried what appeared to be a large staff decorated with an animal skull, closely resembling a ram, adorned with shrunken heads.

They were surrounded by goblins and the air was foul with putrid decay, while they were stripped off their weapons. The goblin chieftain rose from his throne, as gracelessly as his inferior moved, and he eyed them suspiciously with his hazel, bloodshot eyes and asked, sneering: "Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom?"

She stood at the front between Balin and Gloin and not one of the dwarfs said a word in response to the goblin's questioning. "Spies?", the Great Goblin accused his voice rising and breaking into a shrill shriek. "Thieves? Assassins?", the Great Goblin went on listing, as he eyed the dwarven company in growing concerned outrage.

The goblin that was stood before them, his lips composed of blisters, looked over his shoulders and in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, he answered his superior: "Dwarves and a miniature she-elf, your Malevolence."

"Dwarves?", the Great Goblin thundered righting his bloated body, as his eyes sparked with disdain. "We found them on the front porch.", the goblin that had previously spoken continued explaining. With a thundering bellow, the Great Goblin commanded: "Don't just stand there! Search them!"

She cringed, as the goblins once more fell upon them with an assembled, gnarling hiss and she cringed, as their grimy, rough, blistered hands roamed over her form, in search for something she could have hidden. Over the hissing of the goblins, she heard the chieftains thunderous voice, as he said with maleficent delight: "Every crack. Every crevice." She looked on mournfully, as the goblin grabbed the dagger Kili had given to her from her belt and threw it on the pile with the other weapons.

"What are you doing in these parts?", the great Goblin asked while eying them warily. He was met with utter, solemn silence. In response, he pursed his lips and they twitched into a small, malevolent smirk on his face, before he announced: "If they will not talk, we'll make them squack!" The goblins that surrounded them on the wooden platforms built on the rocky walls, watching their misfortune with cruel glee, seemed to cheer at the words of their chieftain and Laurel looked around at them incredulously, astounded by their malice and their joy at other's misfortunes.

"Let's start with the weakest one. Bring me the girl!" She did not have time to feel alarm and properly process the goblin chieftain's words, before she was gripped by the two goblins closest to her. Immediately she started to struggle in a vain, desperate attempt to free herself, as she wrenched towards the shackles that hung on the outermost edge of the platform they stood upon. The shackles were fastened around her wrists, so that she hung with her feet a few inches above the ground by her arms, so that she was completely exposed and vulnerable to the whims of the goblin chieftain. The latter strode slowly, but surely toward her, his stride meaning to appear intimidating, but failing to do so, as the goblin chieftain's goiter swung around rapidly.

She was scared. She rearranged her features and in an attempt to appear brave and fearless, she raised her head proudly and met the Great Goblin's stare impassively. He smirked at her display of courage and she knew that her eyes were betraying the true fear she felt.

"I always thought dwarves hated elves.", the Great Goblin announced in mock-contemplation, as he looked over the assembly of dwarves searching for confirmation to his assumptions. "But I'm sure you must come in quite handy on those cold nights." She glared at him and her lips parted into a sneer and she looked upon him and the assumptions he had made toward her with utter disgust and indignation, resenting that he would humiliate her and brand her a whore, as he was about to torture her. "Let's not deprive them the pleasure, shall we? Speak!", he mock-whispered into her ear and she turned her face to the side, as his putrid breath asphyxiated her.

Sensing her stubborn silence, the goblin king hissed: "Let's see if we can make you squeal!" He then took out his knife and Laurel eyed the blade with utter alarm, but above her fear was that cursed sense of loyalty and responsibility to the quest, to the dwarves, even though they had mistreated her, her kinship and her sympathy toward them had not changed and though she curse her obstinence she was unable to give in to the Great Goblin's demands.

She gritted her teeth, as she felt her arms burn with excrutiating, dull pain that spread from her forearm through her entire body, as the Goblin King dug into her skin with his blunt blade. She gritted her teeth instinctively to keep herself from crying and giving that odious creature before her the satisfaction of seeing her in pain. She screwed her eyes shut and only through a haze did she perceive the enthusiastic clamor of the goblins, which drowned the alarmed outcries of her travel companions. She felt the goblin chieftain once more bring the knife's edge to her other arm and cut a great, deep slash across it and she once more gritted her teeth, as the pain from that cut added to the burning inferno that raged within her.

She looked down, feeling defeated and resigned to her fate, because she knew that Thorin nor any of the other dwarves would ever risk their quest for her safety, Gandalf had told her early on in the quest that the brooding dwarf king had said so, that he had relinquished any responsibility regarding her and Bilbo's fate. It still hurt her, more intensely even then the knife's cuts. She hung her head, as she felt the Great Goblin's face upon her, unwilling to look at anything other than her feet, lest she look at the dwarves and see their indifference toward her.

"Well, if you will not talk. You are of no use to me." With that he brought the knife to her stomach and cut a deep slash across it. At first she was numb with shock and looked up at the smirking, evil face of the Great Goblin with disbelief. She had thought that perhaps she would have more time before he killed her. Perhaps, and she knew that had only been wishful thinking, perhaps one of the dwarves would have come to her rescue, someone other than Bifur, because she knew he would have done so if he could communicate with the goblins. Then the haze passed and she felt the most excrutiating pain on her life, as it felt as if her inside were being shredded. Her arms were growing sore from supporting her weight and a dull, hot pain spread from her newest wound. She could not stop herself this time. She screamed loudly, heart-brokenly, conveying her pain in her high-pitched shriek.

"She squeals!", the Great Goblin announced proudly to the congregation, as her scream seemed to invoke the increased clamor of the goblins, as they seemed to turn frantic at the sight of her pain and spilled blood.

_Bones will be shattered, necks will be wrung! _

_You'll be beaten and battered, from racks you'll be hung! _

_You will die down here and never be found! _

_Down in the deep of Goblin-Town!_

That was the dismal tune she heard, the Goblin bellow loudly, while being accompanied by the enthusiastic, high-pitched shrieks of his inferiors, creating a horrifying harmony, which only caused her screams to turn into loud sobs of fear. She was scared for her life, as she felt blood continously pour out of her wounds, soaking her clothes, so that they stuck warmly to her shivering form. She had never wanted to die. Not like this. Not in front of these horrifying creatures and before these stubborn dwarves. She had always longed to die in Bag End, preferably in her sleep. A calm, serene death. But she had deprived herself of that fate, when she had agreed to go on this quest.

"Stop! Enough!", through the haze that had packed her, she heard his hoarse voice... always his... break through the fog like a glorious beacon and she looked up to see Thorin Oakenshield step to the front of his men and stand before the Great Goblin. Through droopy eyes, she watched him as he glared up icily at the goblin chieftain, whose features had contorted with fiendish glee at the sight of the exiled king.

"Well look who it is. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. King under the mountain.", the great Goblin mock-curtseyed in an attempt to ridicule the proud dwarf. "But I forget. You do not have a mountain. You are no king. Which makes you... nobody, really. I know someone, who would pay a pretty prize for your head. Just the head, nothing attached. Perhaps you know who I speak of. A pale orc astride a white warg." She saw Thorin look darkly and incredulously at the Great Goblin and had she been in her normal state of mind, she would have felt alarm at the revelation of Azog's true fate. "Azog, the Defiler was destroyed.", she heard Thorin growl beneath his breath, unwilling to accept that his victory over the murderer of his grandfather had simply been an illusion. "So you think his defiling days are done, do you?", the Great Goblin stated ominously and coughed a breathy laugh. "Send word to the Pale Orc, tell him I have found his prize.", the Great Goblin instructed his scribe, who immediately moved to acquiesce to his orders.

"Let her go.", she heard him state through gritted teeth and she was so tired that she did not even feel relief at his words. The Great Goblin once more chuckled and stated knowingly: "Well, of course you'd care for what happened to her. As your Majesty commands." She felt herself being grabbed by grimy hands, which freed her from the shackles and then she was being flung toward the dwarves. She impacted and was caught by the strong frame of someone. She allowed herself to be comforted by the warmth that exuded from him and by the texture of the fur of his overcoat and she closed her eyes, as she lay her palms on his chest and rested her weary, feverish forehead on the space between her hands. She exhaled shakily and was soothed by the rise and fall of his chest, while he supported her frame with his arms around her waist preventing her from falling. "I fear I may have slightly broken your toy, your Majesty." she felt his arms tighten around her frame at the sound of the great goblin's malicious words.

She righted herself and regained her footing, before she looked up through half-closen lids at Thorin Oakenshield and for a moment, she kept her palms on his chest, his heart beating eratically, answering to the calling of her palms and she looked up into his face to see that his features were contorted with something that she could only categorise, as worry and regret. For a moment, she simply looked up at him and held his gaze. But then she remembered his indifference to what became of her and she averted her gaze to the side, as she could no longer bear to look at him, before he could see her features contort with hurt.

"Let go of me!", she hissed venomously and pushed on his chest. His arms slackened in surprise and the second push on his chest, she did with such strength, as he had not let go of her the first time, that the force of the push caused her to stumble back and fall down. She scrambled away from him frantically, holding her bleeding wound to lessen the pounding generated in this region. Then she once more looked up at Thorin Oakenshield, who was regarding her incredulously, and she sneered at him hatefully, resenting him for allowing this fate to befall her. She had never been this hurt or angry at another person before her in her life.

But her fiery indignation soon gave way to exhaustion and she no longer cared. She no longer cared for her rage at Thorin Oakenshield. She no longer cared that his indifference at seeing her being tortured had pained her more than the knife had ever done. She no longer cared that blood was seeping out of her wound and she was growing weaker, exponentially, by the second. She no longer cared for anything, but the pleasant warmth that had started to envelop her. Her posture relaxed and she lay down on the ground and looked up, seeing nothing. She did not care, that she could hear the goblin chieftain ordering the goblins to kill Thorin and the dwarves. All she cared for was the siren call of sleep, as it beckoned her.

The last thing she heard before she gave in was a deep, ominous voice, as it bellowed: "Take up arms and fight!"

* * *

She was being carried by someone. Someone, who was running and her fragile, sore frame was being rattled by her carrier's pace.

She groaned in discomfort and in response the arms around her form tightened. She turned her head to the side and through lidded, unseeing eyes, she looked up at her carrier, not recognizing him, and whispered: "Stop, please." "We can't. We're almost out. Hold on for a little longer." She felt her face contort in agony, as she whispered heart-brokenly: "But it hurts." The only answer she got was the tightening of his arms around her frame.

Another tidal wave of drowsiness came over her and its call was so strong that she simply longed to give in and she was once more about to close her eyes and allow sleep to envelope her, as she heard a melodious voice that seemed vaguely familiar to her, whisper alarmedly: "No, elandili."

"Forgive me," she muttered in response to the voice's distress and she closed her eyes once more and fell into darkness.

* * *

**OHHHH cliffhanger. What will happen to our Little she-hobbit now and can I just say for everyone who is reading this Story: Seriously Thorin? What's wrong with you? I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. I know I enjoyed writing. As always thank you to whoever has reviewed, favorited or followed this story. Please take a Moment to leave me a Review on this chapter or kindly check out my new Guy/OC story. **

**QOTW: What did you think of Laurel allowing herself to be tortured in favor of the dwarves' Company? Realistic not realistic? stupid or not stupid?**


	23. In the Brillig

Chapter 22

„_'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe."- Jabberwocky, Lewis Caroll _

"You can't, my child. Do not follow your mother's example," Gandalf stated vehemently, as he sat before the red-haired half-elf, who wringed her hands in her laps and refused to meet the disapproving and worried eyes of the wizard. She sighed silently and shook her head in response to the wizard's pleas. Her red curls shook slightly, as she turned her head, but they no longer caught the sunlight of midday in the Shire and shone like a roaring flame. It was as if their colour had been washed out and the palour of her previously vibrantly red hair reflected her visage. She had always had fair skin, which normally shone ivory, but now her palour had an ashen, grey quality, which was cruelly ironic considering that one would now compare her wild, savage mane with an extinguished fire. She knew that Gandalf had been shocked to see her, when she had opened the door of Bag End to him earlier this morning. The wizard's wide-eyed and incredulous gaze had been like a mirror to her and had told her of how much she had changed in the past few months, after her and Bilbo's return from Erebor, after his... Her features contorted with agonized heart-ache and she was not able to finish that thought. She heard Gandalf sigh warily before her, sensing her renewed distress, her constant distress, which haunted her every second of her life. Out of the corner of her eyes, she glimpsed that the elderly wizard had outstretched his hand, no doubt in a consolatory manner and she flinched back instinctively not wishing for his comfort.

Nothing could comfort her now. Any attempts at it only felt false and painful to her. Gandalf's sympathy, Bilbao's constant worry and his persistent patience with her. Oh, Bilbo... She lowered her head in shame and the intensity at which she wrung her hands only increased, a nervous trait that the two friends had shared. She had been so cruel with Bilbo last night, when he had tried to read her her favorite story from her book and she had shouted at him and told him that she did not want to hear any of those 'silly stories'. Her anger at Bilbo had soon morphed to caustic self-deprecating, when she had seen the pained and despondent look on her best friend's face, and her self-hatred had only increased when she had perceived how little she had cared. Once she had stumble upon that realization, she had chased out of the room, as if the heinous Orcs that she had encountered during her quest had returned for her. She had felt ice-cold dread pack her when she realised that she no longer cared that she had hurt the one man, who had been her friend, her dearest friend all her life. She had run, as if she had wanted to outrun the realization that she no longer cared for anything, if she no longer cared for the effect her behaviour had on Bilbo.

She no longer cared for anything.

Gandalf had arrived this morning and he had been shocked to see the deterioration of the young half-elf, who had previously been so healthy and fiery, but was now only a withered shell of her former self. She had not cared that this man, whose displays of magic she had so dearly enjoyed during her infancy had been looking at her with shock and with disapproval blatantly obvious in his gaze. She had not cared that he had been disappointed with her, that he had been disappointed that the fiery half-elf whom he had amusedly commended for her calling out of the king of dwarves was now only a pale shadow, which ghosted across the halls of Bag End. She had not cared that this man, whom she had cursed for recruiting her on the dwarven quest while she had been lying awake at night mournfully, was stood before her. She had not cared that she had been too exhausted to curse the wizard for him having taken her on the quest, thinking that if she had stayed in Bag End she would not been in the dismal state she was in momentarily. She had cursed him for having convinced them to go on this quest. She had cursed him, but then the thought of having never met him, never having gotten to know him had been so painful, that she had to resist the urge to scream with agony.

She ceased to care.

She averted her eyes from her wringing hands, which's knuckles had turned white from the pressure she had been exercising upon them. She sighed with wearisome exasperation and started: "Gandalf..." He had heard something in the tone of her voice, he had heard a resignation, something that had told him that she had given up, given up all the pain. And he disapproved, he disapproved vehemently of whatever intent he had detected in her words, because he interrupted her sharply and severely stated: "No. Think of Bilbo, he needs you." She shook her head and with lifeless, cold eyes she stated: "No, he needs her. I am no longer her, Gandalf."

"Laurel, you must let him go," the wizard beseeched intently, but she could detect the resignation and defeat in his words. She looked at him and saw that his pale blue eyes had gotten infinitely sad and his brows had furrowed and his lips were a thin, hard line. She knew that he had been looking at her and he had tried to find a trace of her former self. He had been intently searching for the enthusiastic sparkle in her sky-blue orbs, but had only been able to find washed out blue eyes, which were hollow like an abyss. He had tried to search for the rosiness in her cheeks that spoke of her youth and her joy at life and he had only found hollowed out cheeks, where her high cheek bones were almost frighteningly pronounced. He had tried so hard to search for the girl, whom he had admired and been fond of due to her kindness and her cheek, but he had only found a bitter, resigned shadow. She had been extinguished, wiped out and Laurel could feel his intense disappointment radiating through the kitchen of Bag End. The disappointment of the man, whom she had admired for his wisdom and his knowledge, even though she had often been wary of his meddlesome ways.

She did not care.

"Laurel, please," the wizard made a last attempt to rescue the girl he had known, the girl he had thought worthy and courageous enough to undergo the journey. The girl, whom he had unknowingly doomed that night long ago, when she had first met_ him_ and she had first looked upon the man, who would be her downfall. When she had first looked upon Thorin Oakenshield and her soul had immediately recognized him. "You must let him go," she heard him state with determination and certainty and she immediately felt ice-cold indignation rise within her. Indignation at his words, at the words she had been hearing ever since _he_... She gritted her teeth and felt the burning of tears behind her eyes. her hands tightened to fists in her lap and she gritted her teeth when she felt her nails cut into flesh of her palm. Rationally, she knew that Gandalf only meant well with his words, that he only wished to advice her because worried for her and Bilbo. But she could not help, but feel anger when he stated those words, when he suggested that she let go of the man she had... No, she could not even think of it without wanting to scream in her heartbreak. She knew that he only advised her, because he did not want to see her suffer a similar fate to her mother and at times she would still feel bitterness at the fact that she had become just like her mother. That she had become such a careless person in her grief. A person, who only cared for her heartache without considering the pain she inflicted on others around her. She hated that she had become the same ghost she had so despised and feared in her early infancy, the same ghost that she had sworn never to become. And she hated him for that. Not for leaving her, she hated him because he had come into her life and had caused her to become something that she abhorred. She hated him, because even though he was no longer with her, she still felt undeniably entwined with him. She hated that...

She felt herself begin to shake and she looked up at Gandalf and hissed through her teeth: "Don't you think I've tried?" The wizard continued to look at her and she hated the pity she saw in his eyes. "Don't you think I've tried to let him go?" She could not stop the sob that made its way out of her throat and it only caused her self-deprecating to strengthen. It only caused her more bitterness that Gandalf would see her tears. With shame and hurt swimming through her, she whispered: "I have had to let him go so many times. And I am tired. I am so tired of it."

She looked down and closed her eyes, and her palm was now throbbing from the pain that her nails cutting into her flesh had caused. She continued to look down at her palms and she lost any perception of time. It was only when she felt the distinctive, sweet smell of honey encompass her that her eyes opened and she started when she felt warm arms come around her thinning, frail form and she felt a warm, buxom form beside her. She recognized the embrace from decades she had thought it out. And she felt the same motherly affection that she had always experienced in those arms, flow through her and warm her frigid interior. Her tight fists slackened and she looked up disbelievingly into the warm, sad eyes of the woman, who had been a mother to her while growing up. The woman, who had accepted and welcomed her into her home and had treated her as a second child without thought. She looked up into the kind, and motherly face of Belladonna Took. "Aunt Bella?" she breathed in disbelief and she looked up at the woman, whom she had loved, whom she had adored for her benevolence for all of her childhood. She looked up and she once more felt like she was only fifteen and her features were so vulnerable, because she would never have expected to see her again. Not after she had passed away that bereaved winter a few years ago and Laurel had been unable to watch her burial and had hid her face in Bilbo's arms, while he had held her body that had shook with her silent sobs. She felt like a little girl once more, when her beloved aunt passed a warm hand across her cold cheek and smiled sadly and worriedly down at her.

"I asked you to not let this destroy you." she heard the woman whisper and it was not scolding, but sad and wearisome. Laurel was just about to answer her, but the she started to feel a pulling, like a vortex that was pulling her away from the arms of the woman, away from the comforting embrace that had always brought her solace. She continued to look at the face of the woman, whom she recognized as her mother when she'd had none, while Bag End disappeared into a vast empty, black hollow behind her. She looked at those sad Tookish eyes, before she too was blanketed by the black nothingness.

* * *

"You're a fool, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf spat bitterly, as he towered over the dwarven king, who was laying down the red-haired half-elf on a patch of grass in the forest they had run into after escaping from the depth of the Misty Mountains and from goblin town. He saw Thorin Oakenshield tighten his lips in response to his offence, but the brooding dwarf remained silent, as he looked down at the red-haired girl he had held previously in his arms.

Gandalf had arrived in the Misty Mountains and he had been exasperated to find that the dwarves had fallen into the mountain and had been captured in goblin town, but he had not expected to find the young Laurel lying in a pool of her own blood, half dead after having been tortured by the goblins. He had looked down at the girl with her lips as pale as her skin and her chest rising sporadically with her breathing and for a moment he had been speechless, before a deep and abiding anger he'd taken its seat within his chest and it was aimed at Thorin Oakenshield. However, he'd not had the time to admonish the stubborn dwarven king then, and he'd told the cantankerous dwarves to take up arms and fight. They'd barely made their escape from the goblins and he still breathed heavily after their battle from the heart of the mountain.

However his anger had remained with him in the back of his head and now that they were in safety, Gandalf allowed it to resurface and looked down contemptuously at the dwarven king, who did not reciprocate his gaze, as his stormy, grey-blue eyes were fixed upon the broken form of the red-haired girl, whose breathing now only came in shallow pants that were far apart and whose waistcoat was soaked with blood. Gandalf had to avert his eyes, when he saw the young girl's face contort with pain and had he not been of the firm belief that she was necessary for this quest, he would've rued to have recruited her. Through his regret at having exposed the girl to this danger and this pain, when she had lived an idyllic life in the Shire, he felt contempt aimed at Thorin Oakenshield that was so strong that he once more repeated: "You're a fool, Thorin Oakenshield." In response, the dwarven king's features contorted with anger and he was about to answer the wizard and his offence, when a small, pained whimper coming from the girl on the ground interrupted him. Thorin once more turned to her and looked at her slight form that seemed impossibly fragile to them both. Gandalf saw Thorin's features contort with something akin to self-deprecating and he stated through gritted teeth: "Can you heal her or not?"

Gandalf stepped closer to the wounded girl and kneed down beside her. He looked over his shoulders at Thorin Oakenshield, whose attention was solely on the girl and he shook his head in disapproval. Disapproval at Thorin allowing this girl to suffer so greatly, disapproval at Thorin's prejudice and how it addled his judgement. Disapproval at Thorin's stubbornness. Intense disapproval of Thorin's insistence to be blind towards what Gandalf could clearly see, that he was blind towards the fact that he was not indifferent to Laurel Took's fate, that he did not despise her because of her heritage, that he was anything but uncaring of what became of her. "I know not, if I can heal her. She has lost a lot of blood." He saw Thorin Oakenshield's brows draw together and the corner of his lips quirked down in an unhappy frown. As he saw the dwarven king intently studying the girl's pale face and how he outstretched his hand, as if wishing to tuck away an unruly curl of her hair that had fallen across her cheek, but stopping himself, lowering his hand, Gandalf knew: He knew that Thorin Oakenshield was infatuated with Laurel Took. He shook his head at the realization and muttered under his breath: "Save me from the stubbornness of foolish dwarves."

He outstretched his hand and held it over Laurel, as he conjured his magic and proceeded to heal her. Just as he was becoming drained and wearisome, he saw Laurel stir and her eyes snapped open to reveal bright blue, confused orbs. He sighed in a mixture of relief and exhaustion and smiled down at the skittish girl, whose eyes were moving rapidly to and fro, as she tried to place herself. He saw her eyebrows contort with confusion, as she whispered: "Aunt Bella?" Gandalf furrowed his brows, as he felt sad tenderness rise within her at the girl's calling for her motherly figure. He furrowed his brows, as she stared unseeingly at seemingly nothing and he once more became painfully aware of her youth and the fact that she was entirely unprepared and vulnerable on this quest, she was destined to take part of. With his weathered hands, he stroked her warming cheeks and at the touch, the girl flinched and her eyes were redirected toward him. For a moment she said nothing and simply studied his face that was in a compassionate and worried expression before her lips contorted into a small, pained smile and she whispered: "Gandalf." He smiled at her and as she saw the warmth in his eyes, her expression of confusion softened and became more tender, as she muttered: "I was in Bag End and Aunt Bella was there, but I see now that it was only a dream." "I am afraid so, my dear", he stated lowly, intent on keeping the exchange between the both of them.

He saw Laurel shuffle her shoulders and with a pained expression, she proceeded to sit up and he assisted her as he could. Once sat up straight, she clutched her middle-section and Gandalf knew that she was probably ensuring that the sword and her word were gone, judging by the surprised yet relieved expression on her face. He rose and continued to watch the girl, as she cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes before suspiring.

"Laurel," he heard a male voice state behind him and he looked over his shoulder to see that Fili and Kili were stood, looking at the girl with regret, worry and blatant relief on their faces. The addressed half-elf looked up in response to Fili's deep voice and she looked upon the nephews of Thorin Oakenshield at first with impassiveness, but then with a reticent and slightly angered expression. However, the two spirited dwarves who were at the moment unusually solemn, did not allow this to deter them and they approached the red-haired girl, who observed them intently and slightly expectantly. However, when the two dwarves were stood before the impassive girl, they stood still for a moment, unknowing of what they should do next, until Kili kneed down beside her and looked at her with an apologetic and pained expression and he took the hand that cradled her head and whispered: "I thought we'd lost you." She was looking at him and Gandalf knew that she was taking great efforts to remain aloof toward the regretful dwarf before her, efforts which were nullified when her expression crumbled and she closed her eyes, bowed her and shook her head with a humourless smirk twisting her lips. "You hurt me," she said and it was not an accusation, it was not stated with bitterness or anger, it was as if she was remarking a cold, dry fact. He saw Kili bow his head in acquiescent shame, before he embraced Laurel. She, in turn, remained stiff as a stone in his embrace for the first few seconds, before Kili whispered an apology to her. Then Gandalf saw her shoulder slump, as if in defeat and she brought her arms around Kili and embraced him, as well lying her head on his shoulders and shaking her head saying: "What have I gotten myself into?"

After Fili had followed his younger brother's example and had reconciled with the young red-haired girl, they helped her rise to her feet. Just as Bifur and his cousins approached the still weak girl, she looked around her in confusion and asked: "Where's Bilbo?" Only now did Gandalf perceive the absence of the company's male burglar, after having been so focussed on healing the dying Laurel. "Where's our hobbit?" Gandalf stated loudly and immediately all the dwarves began scowering their surroundings, searching for Master Baggins. "Curse the halfling now he's lost?" he heard Dwalin's deep and exasperated voice state, as he looked over his shoulder, in search of Bilbo's distinctive form. "I thought he was with Dori," Nori stated, equally annoyed. "I saw him slip away when we were first collared," the aforementioned explained. Gandalf resisted the urge to roll his eyes and stated boomingly, with worry over Bilbo's well-being: "What happened then. Tell me!" From beside him he heard Thorin state, venomously: "I'll tell you what happened. Master Baggins saw his chance and took it. He's been thinking about his soft bed and his warm hearth ever since he stepped out of his hobbit hole. We won't be seeing our hobbit again." "How dare you!" he turned around when he heard her voice state with clear anger and he felt surprise at seeing Laurel, with fire in her eyes and her nostrils flaring, confront the king of the dwarves for his accusations against her cousin. "Bilbo has done nothing, but tried his best to help on this quest." she stated through gritted teeth and took a menacing step toward the dwarven king until she stood before him with her hand clutching the place where her wound had been and she righted herself and looked up at the dwarven king with her eyes afire in indignation. "And you..." she broke off, as she did not find the word to describe the dwarven king's behaviour toward her cousin, while he looked down at her and answered her, equally indignant: "He has no allegiance toward the dwarves, why would he remain?" She raised her head and stared proudly up at him and with utter surety she said: "But he has it toward me. He wouldn't abandon me here." The last word, she had spat like it was something poisonous and beside him he felt Ori flinch at the venom of the girl's voice, when all the dwarves were used to her kindness and gentility. None had ever seen Laurel so wrathful, as she stared up at the dwarf king with utter contempt. He saw that in response, Thorin had to fight the urge to sneer down at the girl and he stated with admonition: "You should be more careful of who you place your trust in, Mistress Took" For a moment, Laurel said nothing and continued to stare up at the king of dwarves with fire in her eyes. But then suddenly, her features rearranged themselves and they became cold like the most frigid ice and her lips twisted into a cruel and ugly smirk and she lowered her chin and looked up at Thorin with predatory eyes and scoffed, before stating with the venomous contempt: "I'd rather die before becoming as cruel and heartless as you."

He saw Thorin Oakenshield flinch back, as if he had been burned and he looked down at the girl and for a moment, Gandalf could recognize his clear disbelief at her words and her cruel actions, but seeing no change to her contemptuous demeanour, Thorin's gaze darkened and he spat: "He's long gone" before he strode off, leaving the girl bristling with rage.

"You, bast..." he heard her spit at the retreating dwarves' back, but she was stopped at hurling the angry expletive at Thorin when Bilbo's soft voice broke the tense silence of the clearing: "No, he isn't." They all whirled toward the halfling, who was stood in front of Balin and who looked at the company with surety and sighed slightly at an unknown decision he had come to. He saw Laurel smile triumphantly at having her words confirmed, as she stood between Fili and Kili and had her arms slung around her form. "Bilbo Baggins," he stated with an elated smile "I have never been so happy to see you before in my life." He heard Kili scoff to his right and state: "We'd given you up." and his brother questioned "How did you get past the goblins." Dwalin, who stood beside a disgruntled and suspicious Thorin Oakenshield questioned lowly: "How indeed?" Bilbo chuckled nervously at the question and Gandalf caught a glint of gold disappearing into the pocket of his waistcoat and that glimpse caused him to turn grave, but he chose to disregard any worry as he said joviously: "What does it matter?" "It matters," he heard the deep and gravelly voice of Thorin Oakenshield state and immediately all the attention was diverted toward the dwarven king, who eyed the hobbit with suspicion. "I want to know: "Why did you come back", as he voiced his question, Thorin's voice grew a fraction of an inch softer. For a long moment, the sound of chirping was the only thing that broke the silence, as Bilbo looked at Thorin, first with resentment and chagrin, but then his features morphed and softened before he cocked his head and stated: "Look I know you doubt me. You always have. And you're right I often think of Bag End. I miss my books and my armchair. Laurel surely misses her garden and that old tattered book of stories, I miss her cooking and waking up in the morning and hearing her singing in the kitchen. Bag End that's where we belong. That's home." He saw Laurel smile nostalgically at her cousin's words, while Thorin's proud and self-righteous stance clearly deflated and he looked down contemplatively, before observing Laurel out of the corner of his eyes with and unreadable expression on his face. "And that's why I came back. You don't have one. A home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back, if I can." A deafening silence followed his words and he saw Thorin Oakenshield lower his head. All dwarves had grown grave and a sense of longing enveloped the clearing and the people, which stood in it. He saw Bilbo turn towards his cousin, who was smiling at him warmly and with pride, but before anything else could happen, they heard the snarling of and howling of Wars and immediately they all stiffened and look around them, clutching the hilt of their weapons.

"Out of the frying pan," he heard Thorin's voice dripping with resent state and he completed the sentence 'And into the fire', before bellowing: "Run." and they did so, running for their lives.

* * *

AN- Hello, you lovely People. I am so sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, but I experienced a mild case of writer's block. I hope that this chapter was not rubbish and that it is a small consolation for having made you wait this long. Thanks to everyone, who has reviewed. Your Kind words Keep me going, believe me. Please tell me what you thought of this chapter. I hope I was able to Keep everyone in character and that you aren't going 'what the Frack?'

Summary of this chapter: Laurel dreaming, Gandalf healing Laurel, Laurel reconciling with Kili and Fili (whom I have secretly called the Young studmuffins), Thorin (the king studmuffin, as I like to call him) being a majestic douchebag, Laurel being angry, Bilbo arriving and being awesome, Wargs being inconvenient and breaking up a Kodak moment.

QOTW: What do you think about the developments in Laurel and Thorin's relationship? How do you think he shoud get her forgiveness back, if he even deserves it?

P.S: I have made a bookcover for the Story. What did'cha guys think?


	24. Beloved Dust

Chapter 23

_"And you as well must die, belovèd dust, and all your beauty stand you in no stead; this flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, this body of flame and steel, before the gust of Death, or under his autumnal frost, I shall be as any leaf, be no less dead than the first leaf that fell,this wonder fled, altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost. Nor shall my love avail you in your hour. In spite of all my love, you will arise upon that day and wander down the air obscurely as the unattended flower, it mattering not how beautiful you were, or how belovèd above all else that dies."-And you as well must die beloved dust, Edna Mallay_

Bilbo ran.

He ran from certain doom, as he heard the tormented and vicious howls of the Wargs coming ever closer. He ran as the sky above him turned from a warm, orange hue to a cold, bereaved shade of blue as night descended around them. He ran over the forest floor, covered with dying leaves, as autumn approached. He ran over the uneven surface of the woods' floor and jumped down from large boulders, as he ran away from the Wargs that chased them and towards what he hoped was safety. He ran with quick and nimble steps and he felt his arms grow numb with the exertion, he was gripping the handle of his sword with. The speed of his steps only increased, as he recalled the Orcs chase they had partaken in, just before they arrived in Rivendell and he recalled the vicious, gnarling, bloodstained teeth of the creatures, their lolling tongues and their poisonous yellow eyes, which shone with malignance. He ran as he heard the snarling of the beasts and their constant howling, which was becoming almost taunting in its nature for Bilbo. He ran and he refused to look back, lest he become petrified with fear at the proximity of the Wargs, which as it increased made him feel a tingle down his spine. He kept running, even as he felt the treacherous sense of exhaustion creeping into his limbs, because he knew what fate awaited him, if he did not continue running. He knew what awaited him if he stopped, as gruesome images of bloodshed ran through his mind, as he made his way away from the Wargs. He ran alongside the dwarves and his cousin, as he heard her nimble and their heavy steps on the forest floor and he could practically feel the fear and resentment radiating from each individual.

He was just running around a large, rocky elevation when he felt a current of air above him, signaling that something or someone had just jumped off the elevation above him. He did not have enough to ponder on what it had been, when he came face to face with the bloodshot, yellow, malicious eyes of a Warg, who snarled triumphantly and hungrily at him. He saw the creature crouch in preparation to pounce at him and tear him to pieces and instinctively, Bilbo pulled out the sword that Gandalf had bequeathed him raised it, just as the creature advanced on him and he was forced backwards, as the creature's eyes were impaled upon his sword and he was forced backwards into a tree at the impact. He let out an 'oomph' as his back collided harshly with the unforgiving bark of the tree and the air was forced out of his lungs at the impact. With shock, he watched as the creature gave a pained growl and collapsed onto the floor and remained still. Deathly still. He felt his jaw slacken and cold disbelief seeped through his bones. He had just... for the first time killed someone, something. He had not made a habit of accompanying the hobbits in the autumn season to hunt in the woods, much preferring to remain sitting in his warm armchair before his warming hearth and to purchase the bounty of others. He had not cared to go out into the cold and spend hours looking and hunting for animals, truly he did not believe that he was skilled enough to be a good hunter. He had never killed a creature until now and within the sense of guilt at having killed even this heinous monster and another emotion battled. An emotion that was empowering, that made him feel invincible and like he had a distinctive advantage over others. An feeling that he had gotten, when he had first slipped on the ring in Gollum's cave, beneath goblin town and he had realized that the ring gave him the power of being invisible. He looked on in shock at the Warg, who was now completely still after his limbs having twitched, and he acutely felt the conflict between this elating sense of victory and gnarling guilt.

Beside him heard the dying roar of another Warg, as Thorin proceeded to cut it down and he flinched as he saw the look of hatred and the glint of sadism in his leader's eyes, as he killed the henchmen of the Orcs. Beside him, the dwarves continued to run, but Bilbo remained rooted to the spot, his back glued to the tree trunk, as if he feared that if he left this position his legs would give out beneath him. He was shaken out of his trance and raised his eyes from the lifeless body, that he had killed when he heard the commotion of the dwarves and he was met with the same realization that the dwarves had come to, as they stood on edge of the cliff: There was no escape for them from the Wargs, their way was completely cut off. He heard Gandalf's voice shout across the area, where the dwarves were scattered: "Up into the trees, all of you." Hearing the alarm in Gandalf's voice caused Bilbo to be shaken out of his numb haze and he became animate once more. Just as he was about to by-pass the dead Warg, he grabbed the hilt of his sword that was still embedded in its eyes and wanted to pull his sword out, in order to recover it. But he was stopped, when he perceived that the blade was stuck deep into the dead Warg's flesh and he could not get it out. He felt conflicted. Unsure, if he should leave the sword and find safety in the top of the trees, as he could hear the howling of the Wargs approach him steadily and the alarmed outcry of the dwarves as they ordered the members of their company to climb up the branches. He looked up to see that his cousin was being lifted up the closest tree with the help of Dwalin, who packed her by the waist and raised her up so that she could grab the lowest branch and heft herself up. Seeing his cousin in safety, the urge to recover his sword became stronger and with both hands he grabbed the hilt and proceeded to pull on it.

After strenuous pulling, he had been able to recover his sword and he righted himself. The feeling of victory that he had gotten, when he had gotten his sword back quickly dissipated and was replaced with cold dread and confusion, as he looked around him and perceived that he was alone in the clearing and he looked in front of him and he could see the forms of the Wargs, which became increasingly bigger as they ran towards him with their teeth bared and Bilbo could feel the vibration of their steps, which became more intense as their proximity to him increased, like a gruesome rhythm. For a moment, Bilbo was shell-shocked and he looked wide-eyed and with his jaw slack at the approaching forms of the Wargs, a scene which only held fatal consequences for him. And as soon as he fully realized the extents of these consequences for him, he whirled on his heel and with an agility and a strength he didn't know he possessed, he bounded up a branch and up the tree, until he was stood opposite his cousin, who briefly looked at his arrival with relief before she looked down once more into the sea of gnarling, bloody teeth and snapping jaws on the ground, as the Wargs surrounded their trees and were still intent on tearing them to pieces. Bilbo looked on, as the Wargs jumped up towards them, snapping their jaws periodically, viciously, their bloodlust awakened at the challenge their elevation of the ground provided. The sound of their hungry growling drowned out Bilbo's thoughts and his only focus was on the creatures below him.

Their attention and bloodshot, yellow eyes were averted from the struggling company of Thorin Oakenshield, when a white Warg arrived upon the rocky elevation, that was located just before Bilbo's tree and he felt his blood grow cold at the image of the rider astride its beast. It was the most gruesome creature that Bilbo had ever glimpsed on this world. A description in his book would've surely not done this individual's malevolence any justice. He was pale, this Orc. His skin white like ghostly wax. His face was distorted by scars, which ran across it in a fixed pattern and as he sneered Bilbo could see the glint of pointy, yellow, foul teeth, as they reflected the light of the moon. In one hand, the creature held an unrefined, bowed sword, while his other hand was missing and a hook made of badly-contorted steel replaced it. His ears were pointy and tribal markings ran along the length of the Orc's burly arms, but it was not his appearance that most struck and frightened Bilbo. It was the glint of vile, nefarious glint and the flagitious grimace, that vaguely resembled a smile, that shook Bilbo to the core. "Azog," he heard the incredulous exclamation of Thorin, who was stood on the branch of the neighboring and was staring at the Orc with incredulity and shock clearly visible of his face.

Bilbo did not even have enough time to absorb that this creature, which stood before him with a villainous, triumphant sneer on his face was the Orc he had heard so much about, the Orc that many feared, the Orc that he had believed dead, before a deep, gravelly, rough voice that only made Bilbo shiver in fear at its sound broke through the snarling of the Wargs with the words: "Do you smell it? The scent of fear?" In demonstration, Azog took a deep breath before his eyes came to rest upon Thorin Oakenshield and he continued addressing the dwarven king: "I remember your father reeked of it, Thorin son of Thrain." In response to the insult toward his father, Thorin's breath became deeper and his features contorted in anger and disbelief, as he whispered: "It can't be."

"That one is mine..." Azog announced and pointed towards Thorin "Kill the others!" and that was when pandemonium started, as the Wargs jumped to acquiesce to their master's demand. Their gnarling became almost unbearably loud in their volume and Bilbo had to grip the trunk of the tree more tightly, as he felt the pine shake due to the collision of the Wargs, as they tried to jump up the trunk, but could not because of their immense weight. He was just in the process of climbing onto a higher branch, out of reach from the bloody teeth that he knew would haunt his dreams if he managed to survive this ordeal, when he suddenly felt the tree inclining to the right and he realized that the Wargs had probably yanked the roots of the trees out of the ground in their continuous impact on the trunks. As he saw the neighboring tree come closer, as his tree fell he jumped as soon as he deemed the distance safe and landed roughly on. He scrambled to his feet and immediately assisted Laurel, who was hanging off the branch after her less well-aimed jump. Both hobbits stood beside each other on the trees and breathed heavily, and as they stared in disbelief at the sea of Wargs beneath them, Bilbo started to feel an innate sense of defeat seep through his pores.

In the next seconds a domino effect occurred with the previous tree pushing the other tree out of its place with steady help of the Wargs and they were forced to jump from tree to tree, as they felt them come tumbling down.

As Bilbo clutched the bark of the tree they were now stood upon, the tree on the outermost edge of the cliff, he prayed that it would remain steady, that it would not give into the force of the collision of the Wargs, which he could feel coming periodically and which shook the branch beneath his feet. He was looking down worriedly at the mass of gnarling Wargs, when suddenly he saw a patch of the ground below catch fire and the Wargs retreated instinctively in fear of getting burned, allowing the tree a reprieve from the collisions. He looked up to see that Gandalf was lighting up pine cones and was throwing them to them as ammunition. They threw the fiery cones upon the Wargs, which retreated from the hazard and soon the forest floor was afire in roaring flames. They watched as the Wargs ran from the fire and the roar of frustrated defeat that sounded from Azog, as he perceived the dwarves' victory, instigated them to cheer with unbridled, relieved triumph. It did not last long, however when suddenly they felt the tree shake once more and then they were falling, as the tree's root gave way and it feel so that it was horizontal with them standing on branches and below those a gaping, hungry abyss. He clutched the form of his cousin tightly, as they both held onto their branch with dear life, resisting the treacherous urge to look down at the abyss below, which seemed endless in its vastness. He heard the dwarves' struggle, as they tightened their grip on the tree, all unwilling to fall.

The next thing he knew was that Thorin had righted himself and was stood on the trunk of the tree with his sword drawn and his face contorted into a hateful sneer. He watched, as Thorin descended from the tree and he was left incredulous at the fact that Thorin was willing to meet Azog head on, that he was seemingly running towards him. He knew that it was Thorin's desire for revenge and his anger and hatred toward the pale Orc, after him having killed his grandfather and seemingly his father that propelled Thorin to run toward Azog, but he was aghast at the fact that this hatred within Thorin would leave him unheeding, unconscious of the danger he was in, especially since Thorin went on solitarily to meet Azog, who had a small of Wargs behind him. He watched as Thorin ran towards Azog, his oaken shield clutched in his hand, Orcist drawn and all his features and expressions screamed of a warrior. Bilbo observed Azog's features twist with mocking, malicious and anticipatory triumph as the dwarven king ran towards him, before he gave a great roar which was echoed by his white Warg and the latter pounced upon Thorin, making the brooding dwarf fall. Beside him he heard a high-pitched, pained gasp and he looked to his side to see that his cousin had averted her eyes from the display she had previously watched intently and had screwed her eyes shut, as if in pain. He watched his cousin, as she flinched when they heard the sound of Thorin once more falling and his cry of pain as the pale orc hit him once more, each time the sound of Thorin's struggles reached them he saw that his cousin's shoulders drew themselves together and she gritted her teeth, as if wanting to drown out these sounds. He looked upon her with wide-eyes, as the realization dawned upon him. The realization of Laurel's feelings toward the dwarven king. Without a doubt, she was angry and resentful toward Thorin, her anger fueled by an occurrence he was not yet informed about. Yes, Laurel was contemptuous toward him, especially after she had derisively stated that she'd rather die than become like the brooding dwarf. Yes, she may be frustrated and exasperated at Thorin's mistreatment of her, because she was an elf. Yes, she may even momentarily hate him. Yet as he watched her pained expression at Thorin's struggles against the pale Orc, he knew that his cousin cared deeply for the dwarven king. The fact that he was the man she had dreamt about did imply that she would hold a certain degree of respect and admiration for him, but Bilbo quietly recognized that Laurel's feelings ran deeper than that. That her pain for Thorin's struggle was not caused by the shallow and superficial admiration one held toward heroic motifs. Somehow, and Bilbo could not fathom the reason, Thorin had despite his anger and his bitterness caused his cousin to care more for him than she had cared for any other person. The way she cared for him, her cousin was different. Bilbo doubted that there was anything platonic about Laurel's feeling towards Thorin and as he watched her open her eyes and saw them glint with determination, Bilbo thought that perhaps she even...

"Damn him," he heard her low voice and his train of thought was cut short "Damn him, but I simply cannot watch him..." she shook her head and the next few seconds were a blur in his mind, as they all meshed together and passed fleetingly. He would not be able to account for the occurrences of the last seconds, the next thing he knew was that his cousin had risen and was running down the trunk of the tree, her dagger drawn and glinting menacingly, her red braid swinging precariously to and fro. She had fire in her eyes, fire in her hair and she ran through the fire toward the figure of the Orc, which approached Thorin Oakenshield with his curved blade drawn. Through a numb haze, he perceived that he had called out to her, before he felt himself rising on his feet and gripping the hilt of his sword. The next thing he did was something that he had done for the last two decades of his life, ever since she had come into his life and they had formed an instantaneous true bond. Just like in all instances of his life, when Laurel had felt inclined to a prank, when she had wanted to chase fireflies in his mother's garden, when she had wanted to search for dwarves and elves in the woods abutting Bag End, when she'd wanted to feel from Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Just like during all those events, without a second thought, Bilbo ran after her.

His eyes were glued on the form of his cousin, as she quickened her step seeing that the Orc had trained his blade on Thorin's throat, who lay defeated on the ground. He saw her run towards the Orc, who was just about to raise his sword before decapitating the king of the dwarves. He saw Thorin trying to reach for his sword, while sneering hatefully at the Orc that stood before him. He saw her jump at the burly form of the Orc, who was caught by surprise and at the impact of her form against his side, he fell to the ground and away from the brooding dwarf, who started in surprise at his cousin's and watched with wide-eyes, Bilbo's disbelief mirrored in his stormy eyes, as with an agility that they both did not expect from her, laurel straddled the Orc and brought her dagger down into his stomach, impaling him before she closed her eyes and twisted her blade in the Orc's flesh once more and giving a pained whimper. He saw Laurel's eyes open in disbelief and she looked down at the dead Orc, whom she had killed so viciously, and she let go of the hilt of her dagger with shaking hands. He was close enough that he could hear Thorin whisper: "Laurel." But his cousin was caught in a incredulous haze, self-deprecation flowing through her after having taken a life and even from this distance, Bilbo could see the guilt prominent in his cousin's blue orbs. She was completely incognizant to her surroundings. She was so caught up in her shock that she did not see the Orc's warg pounce towards her and raise his giant paw, before bringing it down upon her and hitting her away from the dead form of its rider. She landed roughly a few yards away from Thorin, who was struggling to rise at seeing the vengeful Warg approaching the red-haired girl, intent on killing her. He ran as his dread at loosing her fueled him and he quickly cut down the warg, without a mercy or a second thought. Only intent on protecting his cousin. The beast went down with a pained roar, as he kneed beside Laurel and passed a shaking hand over her pained features. "Laurel," he whispered lowly but determinedly, as he watched his struggling cousin "We need to get away."

He helped Laurel rise and as she scrambled to her feet, she pulled on the hand he had outstretched to help her rise and pulled him so that they were in front of the unconscious form of Thorin Oakenshield, just as Azog and his Warg were about to approach him. He stood beside Laurel with his sword clutched, as they stood between Azog and their leader and from his cousin's determined expression, he knew that even though she resented Thorin at the moment, she would not allow harm to befall him at the hands of the Orc. "Kill them," Azog spat, as his Warg crouched in preparation to pounce upon them and tear them to pieces.

But before it could do so, a great battle roar sounded from their right and the next thing they knew was that the rest of the company advanced on Azog and his army of Wargs with their swords drawn. Fueled by the sight of the dwarf's fighting, Bilbo gave his own version of a battle cry and followed the dwarves' example by cutting down the warg closest to him. The next moments were a blur of fighting and then he heard the fluttering of wings and squawking and he saw great eagles descend upon them and attacking the Wargs, by picking the great beasts up with the claws and dropping them into the abyss. Laurel stood beside him before Azog and stared up at the eagles, which had come to their help with amazement in her eyes, mirroring the sensations he felt. For the first moment, he allowed himself to believe that they were being saved, as behind him he saw an eagle scoop down and pick up the unconscious form of Thorin Oakenshield. He saw his cousin smile triumphantly as the form of their leader was carried out of Azog's reach, but then they heard a great angry roar from behind them and they whirled around to see Azog, whose features had contorted with anger spurn his Warg and advancing toward them. They could faintly hear the sound of an eagle behind them and saw the solitary form of one bird, and at seeing the cold and painful realization dawn on his cousin's face and her features paled and became grave with determination and... resignation. Before he could question what had caused his cousin the sudden change of mood, that she had grown deathly grave, she turned towards him and looked at him sadly. He heard her whisper: "I love you, Bilbo." before she pushed him off the cliff. As he went over the edge, he looked at her in disbelief, questioning her decision of pushing him down the abyss and then he was falling and the wind rushed past his ears with a great, roaring gust. His insides grew cold, as he perceived the lack of firm ground beneath him. Then his fall was stopped, as he fell upon a warm, feathered surface and he was flying with one of the great eagles away from the cliff that Azog stood on and watched their escape with contempt and anger.

The sun was rising behind them in a languid and leisurely pace, as their procession flew across the vast ranges of the mountains and he looked around him to see stark peaks that rose from a collection of clouds, which in their tips were colored white with snow. He watched the landscape below pass by him, as he held onto his eagle.

Soon they came upon a large Carrock and as Bilbo was placed down upon it by his eagle and felt relief and having firm ground beneath his feet, he looked down to see a river below looping around the stone. Soon the entire company of Thorin Oakenshield had arrived on the Carrock and Bilbo was left to watch, as Gandalf stooped down beside the still unconscious form of their leader before outstretching his hand and uttering words in a foreign tongue and then Thorin's grey-blue eyes fluttered open and he looked up at Gandalf slightly disoriented. The wizard in turn sighed in relief, and he heard Thorin ask: "Laurel... the halflings?" "It's alright," he heard Gandalf state and as he watched Thorin rise, relief spread through Bilbo and he sighed, his stiff posture softening at perceiving the welfare of their leader.

"You!" Thorin exclaimed in accusation, as he shrugged off Dwalin and Kili's hands from his arms, after they had assisted him rising. "What were you doing? You nearly got yourself killed." He was slightly surprised at seeing Thorin's hostility towards him and immediately he felt disappointment take a seat within him, that Thorin would not recognize his and Laurel's efforts in keeping him alive. He was only stopped from saying something in response, as he felt intimidation seeing Thorin's angry gaze on his form. He lowered his head, as he allowed the king of the dwarves to admonish him and offend him after having saved his life. "Did I not say that the two of you would be a burden? That You would not survive in the wild? That you had no place amongst us?" He rised his head in surprise at hearing Thorin's next words: "Never have I been so wrong in all my life." Then he was seized in an embrace by the king of the dwarves and Bilbo was shell-shocked. He could hear the cheering of the dwarves and through his surprise, Bilbo felt a sense of joy and achievement flood him, as the man who had been disapproving of him and of Laurel apologized. Thorin drew back from the embrace, but continued holding Bilbo by the shoulder and with a smile that made him appear much younger, he stated: "I'm sorry I doubted you." "No, I would have doubted me too." Thorin nodded his head once in acquiescence, before his smile widened even more and he whispered so lowly that Bilbo questioned if he was even supposed to hear it: "I misjudged her." The dwarven king looked up and with an anticipatory smile, he turned and asked: "Where is Laurel?"

For a moment, silence descended upon the cheerful company and the dwarves looked around each other to find the form of the hobbit girl and were puzzled to find their search without bounty. At perceiving his cousin's absence from the Carrock, Bilbo piped up remembering his departure: "She should arrive soon, she pushed me off the cliff and onto the eagle. I left just before her." And just as he was about to search the sky for the silhouette of the expected eagle, carrying his cousin Gandalf stated gravelly: "You left on the last eagle, Bilbo Baggins"

He had expected to feel dread at Gandalf's statement and the implications of it concerning his cousin's fate. He had expected to feel crushing devastation and he had expected himself to be frantic. He did not expect his reaction. He did not expect the algid ness that had packed him and the numbness he felt. Through his haze, he heard himself state with wide and hollow eyes: "I need to go back." He was just about to whirl on his heel and call for an eagle to fly back to the cliff, to fly him back to her. His voice rose: "I promised mother. I promised Rel. I need to go back." He felt determination seize him, which was caused his movements to become hurried and frantic and he was just looking for the best way to return, when he felt someone grab him by the shoulder, stopping his frantic movements and he looked up into Thorin's confused and slightly worried expression: "What is it?" he heard the dwarf king ask and any previous elation was wiped from his voice. Bilbo started to struggle in Thorin's grasp, now that his blissful numbness began to retreat and the realization of his cousin's situation started to dawn upon him. In distress, he called out: "Let go of me. I need to go back. I promised her. I can't leave her back there, not with him. I promised her I would take care of her." Through his blurred vision, he saw realization dawn on Thorin's expression and the dwarf king lowered his gaze with an unreadable expression. contrasting with his utter silence at Bilbo's words, was the sudden uproar he heard from the other dwarves, mainly Fili and Kili. "We need to go back. She might still be alive." he heard Fili's voice state with determination, but the relief that had sprung within him at Fili's willingness was crushed when he heard Balin state solemnly: "I hope not." He saw Kili's features contort with anger and despair, as he exclaimed accusingly at the elderly dwarf: "How can you say that?" "There is a reason they call Azog the Defiler." Balin stated ominously and Bilbo wrenched himself of Thorin's grip, which had tightened in response to Balin's words and he looked at the company of dwarves and he stated determinedly: "We need to go back. We need to..." "We move on." he whirled around at the sound of Thorin's command, as he saw the dwarf king right himself and his impassive gaze was once more in its rightful place. He watched incredulously, as Thorin moved passed him. "Uncle, we need to..." Kili started beseechingly, but was interrupted by Thorin's stern gaze and his cold words: "I said we move on." Kili flinched back as if burned, and soon his incredulous gaze at his uncle darkened and he looked at the ground with distaste, but said no more in protest.

Bilbo felt fiery indignation take a hold of him and he spat venomously at Thorin's retreating back: "She would have gone back." Thorin stopped in his tracks at Bilbo's words and stood rooted on the spot, as he continued: "She would've returned for you. She would've died for you, Thorin." He wondered if it was only a fabrication of his mind, but he saw Thorin flinch at his words. Yet it did not matter, because the king of the dwarves descended the stairs of the Carrock and his company eventually followed him and Bilbo was left standing on top of the stone enyot, staring disbelieving at the spot where Thorin had stood.

* * *

AN- Oh man what will happen to our Little hobbit now? She sacrificed herself for Bilbo, now what? Silly Girl, so impulsive, but she really does love Bilbo! I hope that the fact that she sacrificed herself doesnt seem to stupid to you. Thank you to anyone who has reviewed the last chapter. I definetely enjoyed reading your opinions. I would love your Feedback on Laurel's behaviour this chapter, because I am sorry insecure about it. If she is still believable and is not turning into an annoying Mary-Sue. The question of the week shall be replaced by a poll:

POTW: What do you think about Thorin not going after Laurel?

1) Unforgivable. Especially after she, regardless of the fact that she was seriously pissed off at him, came to his rescue. Laurel should give up on the grump and get together with Kili or Fili.

2) She shouldn't have sacrificed herself. It's her own fault, I don't blame Thorin. His biggest Focus should be getting Erebor back.

3) I really don't know. Hope that something amazing happens, because I don't know how their relationship will Progress after that. Ahhh, too much Tension!


	25. Book Three: In the Silence I forget

**Book Three: Between**

Chapter 1

_"__The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me— Because He's Sunrise—and I see— Therefore—Then—I love Thee"— Why do I love You, Sir?, Emily Dickinson_

The sunshine filtered through the thick, stain glass of the kitchen's window and caused the dark wooden shade of the oaken table to be tinged with a lighter hue. It was a warm, early summer morning and accordingly to the station of the year, the kitchen of Bag End was already pleasantly warm. Yet she did not feel so. She had always enjoyed summer, as she had been able to see the flowers in full bloom and would daily enjoy the warm sun shining on her face, as she sat in the garden she had inherited of her late aunt. The birds would chirp their glory song, fully disfruiting of the pleasant weather, the butterflies with their eclectic, colorful wings would flutter around her and each time she would be amazed at the design on their wings, because she had thought that it could have gotten anymore creative or artistic, but she was to be surprised when a butterfly would come by with lemon-yellow wings adorned with blue swirls on the edge of their flying ornament. Spring was certainly a jovial time, as it marked the end of the constantly hard season of winter, autumn was handsome as her surroundings shifted from lush green, to warm shades of brown and red and winter did have its charm, when the snow blanketed the shire and everything around was the purest white. But summer in the shire... that had always been something she loved... loved with an intensity and with a joviality that even rivaled the one she'd held as a fauntling. She loved lying on her back in the meadow of her late aunt's garden with the sun shining upon her face and her eyes closed in blissful contentment, her red hair open like a fiery halo around her head. She loved the smell of recently bloomed sweet peas and daisies and gardenias, that came from Hamfast's garden, as they wafted through the warm air, which's heat only seemed to increase the intensity of the scents. She loved the smell of lemons and other fresh fruits, that traveled the distance from the market to her hobbit hole. She loved how the warm spring air took its seat upon her skin. She loved summer in the Shire... it was her safe heaven, her sanctuary. She loved it there.

She had loved it there. Because this season she took no pleasure of the summer she had previously so adored. The heat no longer kissed her skin, like the lightest and most pleasant companion, but rather seemed stifling. Smothering to such an extent that one day when she had finally dared to venture out into the garden to tend it, as she had cruelly neglected it this spring. She had been unable to stay out for even half of an hour, even when previously she would often remain the entirety of a day in her late aunt's garden, surrounded by the blooming flora. She had been unable to stay outside for even half an hour, when she had started to feel breathless and her breathing had quickened furiously, because she had felt as if her breathing passages had been cut off and the bodice and collar of her dress had, to her, resembled strangling ropes. She had quickly reentered her room and had locked the door and leaned against the door, trying to catch her breath, loosening the tight bodice of her clothes. Her legs had given out beneath her and she had ended up sat on the wooden floor, still breathing heavily and with her eyes burning. She had not gone back, much to Bilbo and Hamfast's disappointment.

She no longer joined her cousin, while he smoked his pipe after first breakfast and sat on the wooden bench beside the front door of Bag End. When spring season had arrived, her cousin had bid her to join him, had bid her to recover their tradition. But she had refused him on several occasions and eventually he had stopped asking, though she would feel his sad gaze on her back, as he exited their hobbit hole. She would steadfastly ignore him, ignore the warmth of his gaze on her back, which left her feeling so cold inwardly. She had refused him with sad eyes and a dreary expression and she had seen Bilbo's worry and his fear for her increasing quickly, as her favorite time of year arrived and she no longer smiled to herself, as she looked out the window of Bag End while she cooked or sat in their living room with her knees drawn and looking over one of his old maps. She could feel his worry radiating off him when he perceived how she tried to avoid looking out at the picturesque landscape of summer, how her eyes increasingly lost their light and her appearance became washed out and ashen, while the world outside her become more vibrant, warmer, more beautiful. Silence was the one thing that now seemed to prevail in Bag End and then one morning she had walked into the kitchen and she had seen Bilbo preparing the tea kettle, while he had been humming the tune she'd always sing in the early mornings. Recognizing the slightly melancholy melody of the nursery rhyme her mother had sang to her during her early years of life, she had turned on her heel and returned to her room, feeling the kitchen and the image of Bilbo's hunched shoulders while he sang her song.

She had tried.

She had tried to find her old enjoyment for this simple facet of her life. She had tried to recover the simple, yet all-consuming joy she felt, whenever she saw the sticky little leaves on the myrtle tree in her garden. She tried to recover her love for sticky little leaves, but this time around the sight of them had simply pained her and she had averted her eyes as she could no longer bear to look at them. She had tried to relapse to her old habits with Bilbo. One morning, a few weeks back, she had sheepishly ventured out of Bag End and had quickly sat beside Bilbo, while he looked out into the Shire and smoked his pipe. She had quietly sat beside him and she had kept her gaze fixed forward. She had not needed to look at Bilbo to know that he had at first started at her sound appearance, before his slightly perplexed look had softened and he had smiled at her and what he perceived as her recovery. And that is why she had not looked at him. Because she could not bear to look at the man, who was her best friend and see hope in his eyes. She had felt him take her hands and they had felt heavy in her grasp. She had kept her gaze forward, even when she could sense her cousin's yes on her. She had kept her gaze forward and had not spoken a word and the scene had felt so excruciatingly wrong, because there should have been talk between them, or in the very least companionable and warm silence, not this silence which was so algid and so heavy and hurtful. She kept her gaze forward with Bilbo's hand resting on hers, warm and wrong. Then she had heard the sound of children's laughter and her face had contorted in heartbreak, as she was painfully, cruelly reminded of all that she had been deprived of. The life she had been deprived of. The hurt was so great that she had to fight the urge to cry out. The sound of delighted children's laughter and the feel of Bilbo's heavy hands on her was too great and she ripped her hand out of his and fled into Bag End, ignoring the sound of Bilbo's alarmed outcry of the nickname he had used when they had been younger.

They had not exchanged a word since then. Her and the man who had been her dearest companion for the entirety of her life. With whom she had shared a bond that only few would understand. They had understood, Laurel would think grieving. The two brothers had shared a similar relationship and they had understood- understood the love Bilbo and Laurel had held for each other.

She had tried. She had tried so hard to overcome her grief. She had tried so hard to become the same Preston she had been before she had gone on that blasted quest. Bilbo had been right, they should never have left Bag End. But the thought of never having gotten to know him and being deprived of the few moments of bliss with him, which already had been too insufficient, would always be too insufficient had caused her so much pain. She had tried to overcome her pain and the gaping hollowness she felt within her. But one morning she had awoken and she could hear the distinct sound of larks chirping on the branches by her window and she could smell the dew hanging heavily in the air. Before, she would have normally felt elation and a contentment flow through her and she would rise propelled by the sun's warmth on her cheek. When she had awoken that morning and had felt a longing to return back to sleep, back to her dreams, she had come to the realization, which had not startled her as she would have expected. She had realized that she no longer cared.

It was a warm, archetypal summer morning in the Shire and she sat on the kitchen table, while keeping her gaze fixed on her wringing hands. She could not bear to see the disappointment and dismay in her opposite's eyes, when she confessed to him in a soft, wilting voice: "Gandalf... I am dying."

She felt the wizard straighten at the sound of her words, when previously heavy and anticipatory silence had blanketed them and he had smoked his pipe and had mustered her carefully and eyed her warily. For a few seconds he did not say a word and she had begun to wonder if her voice was no longer strong enough to carry her words the short distance between the two. She had started to wring her hands with more intensity and she felt his gaze burn into the crown of her head. "You mustn't." she heard him state.

His voice carried no surprise, she knew that he was not surprised at her revelation. Gandalf was a wise man from the many decades he had spent on Middle Earth. Surely when she had opened the door to him earlier that morning and she had stood before him, surely he had seen her deterioration. Surely, he had grasped that the girl, whom he had previously so admired for her fiery and obstinate spirit was wilted and weathered and was a hollow shadow of herself. She would normally have cared, while her obstinacy was something that she had kept restrained while growing up in the Shire, it was always something that she had felt bubble within her, like a fire that could not be extinguished and subconsciously it's presence had soothed her. She felt nothing now and differently from what she had expected, this emptiness did not cause fear to rise in her.

"Would you truly commit the same mistake as your mother, my dear?" she heard him ask and it was not derogatory or even judgmental, it carried an honesty and a genuine wonder that almost made her look up at him, but she was unable to look up at him, lest she see his pity for her. She was unable now to look into anyone's eyes, lest she see what she had become in her mourning reflected in them. She said nothing in response to his question, but through the numbness that now resided and festered within her, like the most gruesome disease, she felt bitter recognition. That she had become like the woman who had hurt her so greatly, when she had become exactly that which she had dreaded. When she had become that which she had sworn herself never to.

"Thorin loved you. It would have pained him to see you like that." The words Gandalf spoke were double-edged, because in the first moments they caused the old longing and warmth she associated with the grumpy king under the mountain to return with such an intensity that she flinched, yet they only caused her more pain, because they roused those feelings. Bitter amusement, as she laughed sardonically and voiced Thorin's true feelings for her: "He resented me." She shook her head, as she was reminded of the several times he had mistreated her, when she had felt his self-deprecation for having fallen for her. "He may have loved me, but even if he had lived an eternity he would have never said so." She felt the wizard before her start, as if wanting to reply to her words. He had never told her he loved her, but he hadn't needed to, because she had known. She had known that night when the trolls had captured them and she had felt his gaze burning into her, while she had been shedding her clothes. She had known that night when she had first found out that he was the man in her dreams and she had been too caught up with the shock of her discovery to see him reciprocating her bare gaze with equal vulnerability only for her. She had known that time when she had hurt her ankle while rescuing Kili and he had carried her and she had found comfort in his warmth. She had known those several times, when his gaze had softened for her... only for her. But that had not stopped him for hating her, just as much as he loved her. "He could never forgive himself for falling in love with an elf." she confessed to Gandalf and at her words, the wizard let out a wary sigh, silently confirming her words about the dwarf's stubborn prejudice.

"Bilbo needs you, Laurel. You must let Thorin go." Gandalf beseeched her and his voice was no longer calm and raspy, but she could now detect an unmistakable alarm coating his words. She shook her head and said: "I have tried. I have had to let him go so many times." She closed her eyes and whispered heartbroken: "And I am tired. I am so tired of it."

She kept her eyes closed and her cold hands draped over her lap, when suddenly she felt a shift in the air around her and she furrowed her brows, as she could almost painfully perceive an unidentifiable shift in the air around her. He skin prickled and her spine straightened out of its own accord. She pursed her lips and shifted on her chair, in a subconscious effort to accommodate to the change. She opened her eyes slowly and looked up into warm, sad silvery eyes.

She was in awe. She was in awe of the elven woman before her. She was beautiful, no doubt. Her beauty containing an ethereal factor, and while all elves possessed it, it practically radiated off the woman before her. In response to Laurel's shift of attention to her, the elf's beatific smile widened and she looked down at her with amenity and compassion in her eyes. Seeing the woman's emotion, Laurel subconsciously perceived the urge to lower her eyes, but was unable to do so, as she was spell-bound by the woman before her.

"Elandili." the woman addressed her and Laurel's eyes widened, as she realized that this was the same voice she had heard after she had departed from Rivendell and which had comforted her when she had been alone due to the dwarves' prejudice and distrust toward her. As the woman addressed her, she felt her insides warm and she no longer felt cold and bereaved, but warmer. Her jaw slackened and she continued to look at the woman lost for words.

"You must survive." the woman beseeched her and took her hands and they were encased by a warmth, that was so motherly and soothing that at first she did not even perceive the connotation of the woman's words. Yet as soon as they dawned on her, she shook her head and felt old despair rise within her. Breaking the spell, she lowered her eyes and shook her head vehemently, while whispering with distress: "Do not ask this of me. I live in hell. Do not ask me to let him go, not again."

The woman's grip on her hand tightened and she raised her eyes in response and through blurred vision, she saw the woman, undeterred by her frantic pleas, state: "You must wake up now, my dear."

In response, Laurel looked up at her at first confusedly. She furrowed her brows at the meaning of the woman's words, at describing this situation as a dream. She furrowed her eyes and looked at the woman, silently bidding her elaborate on her cryptic words. But then it came back to her. It came back to her, the fight on the cliff, her capture and her situation now in Azog's dungeons.

She closed her eyes, fear walling within her and having completely forgotten her mourning and her defeat. She looked up at the elf woman and she stated: "I am scared." It was only a statement. She knew she needed to wake. It would not do to remain in this artificial world. The elf's smile only widened and became warmer, as she said: "I know. But you must have hope, elandili. When our courage leaves us, it's all we have left." Laurel lowered her head and closed her eyes and as she felt everything disappearing around her, the elf's warm hands were the last to go.

* * *

She opened her eyes and was met with the sight of the damp prison stone walls. She lay on her side on the hard cold floor and she looked at the walls before her with numbness coursing through her, which was slowly giving way to utter fear. The blood rushed by her ears and she could hear the rapid thumping of her heart and it was loud and ominous that she wondered if anyone else could hear it. The air was rancid and smelt of foul decay, which hung heavily and coldly on her skin and she shivered as a cold gust of wind flowed through the barred windows. Her head throbbed painfully from her dreaming and the only source of warmth in this forsaken place was the glowing diadem on her chest, which she grasped as a source of comfort as she felt its heat diminish. She drew her knees tighter to her chest and held onto tightly to Lord Elrond's gift. She held tightly onto her pendant the only thing around her that did not seem poisoned with the viciousness of the trolls.

She did not remember much of her capture, perhaps her shock and her fear had caused her temporary, blissful oblivion. She could only remember how she had pushed Bilbo off the cliff and onto the back of a giant eagle and then she was being carried over an old, unsteady wooden bridge and she was surrounded by Orcs. Orcs standing on rock spurs that jutted out of the fortress like sharp sabers. Orcs on raised hides of wood, which creaked and groaned mournfully. Orcs on bridges above her and below her. She was conscious when she had arrived in the Orcs' fortress and to hear it had seemed like a desolate place in the sallow light. Only rocks upon rocks, as they traveled deeper and deeper into their settlement and her deeper and deeper into the hopelessness of their grasp on her. They had bound her, and they had carried her and she had kept her gaze lowered to the cobblestones below her in fear of what she would find. Especially when the landscape of rocks retreated and they entered a larger hall, which was lined with the cells, like the one she was kept in now. Stock gates with thick wooden beams preventing any type of escape, of hope. She had not seen who or what the Orcs kept imprisoned within their cages. She had not wanted to see, but no matter how intent she had been to keep her eyes on the floor below her, she had been unable to drown out the dismal, unharmonious melody of their cries and groans.

Roughly she had been pushed into the cell and there she had remained. She no longer knew how long she had stayed in the same position on the ground. Lying on her side with her knees drawn tightly to her chest- a bundle of red and fear. She knew not how long she had stayed in the same position, her frail form wreaked by bouts of shivers. No light of day ever reached this abyss and the darkness was artificial and not serene like the blackness of night, it was interspersed by the flame light of the torches as the threw flickering and dismal shadows on the ground before her, on which she kept her eyes fixed. She did not know how long she had kept her eyes fixed on that very same russet spot on the grey stone before her. She did not how long it had been since that was the only thing she saw, when she did not dream. When she did not dream of a situation she knew not if it was better, for it confused her greatly. She could not make sense of her dream and at this moment she did not want to. She did not want to understand why she felt such great sense of defeat and abandon in her dreams. She did not want to know why she longed to once more dream of him. She did not want to know why she yearned to once more feel the same familiarity that she always felt whenever she was with him, in her dreams. And she did not want to know why she longed for Thorin Oakenshield, the man who had abandoned her, mistreated her, misjudged her, with such intensity. She did not want to know. She only gave in when her wishes were fulfilled, with wild abandon and for her to be soothed for a matter of a few seconds. Because in those few seconds she was at peace, she was carefree and she did not fear.

Fear... Fear, the menace that lurks in the path of life, never visible to the eyes but sharply felt in the hear. The father of despair, the brother of procrastination, the enemy of progress, the tool of tyranny, for how often is fear used in repression. Born of ignorance and nursed on misguided thought. It has darkened more hopes, stifled more ambitions, shattered more ideals and prevented more accomplishments than history could ever record. Like a changing chameleon, it assumed so many disguises, masqueraded as caution, sometimes known as doubt or worry. Whatever the name of it, it was still fear... the obstacle of achievement. She realized now that she had never felt fear before in her life. Not when she had worried over her mother's morning as a young girl, not when she had grown up and as a young woman she had cared for her ailing aunt Bella, not when she had gone of this quest and she had constantly thought about her and Bilbo's safety. She had had the fortune to, up until now, never experience this caustic biting feel that freezed her insides and left her unable to do anything except stare at the ground before her with wide eyes, left her catatonic. She'd never had to experience fear up until now.

Through the sound of blood rushing in her ears, she perceived the sound of stirring behind her. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor not alarmed by the sound, as she knew that it was the other prisoner in her cell. Before she had entered into her fear-induced waking coma, she had seen that another was with her in the cell. The strip of sky that she had been able to glimpse from the narrow window on the wall behind her had told her that it was night, and she would have surely missed him if her eyes had not succored his location at the exact moment the moonbeam had fallen upon him and his white blonde hair had shone, palely. Uninterestedly, she had realized that he was an elf judging by his long flowing hair, his sharp ears and his fine features. He had been crouched on the back most edge of the cell and had pressed himself into the brick wall, as if he wanted to melt into it, escape somehow. She had seen his perturbed state and his washed out, ashen appearance and for a moment she'd felt such pity for this creature yet at the same time such resentment for in him she saw what was bound to become of her. Quivering, looking at her surroundings with fear and with wide and bloodshot eyes, muttering unintelligibly. She had kept her back to him, unable to look at this mirror image of her future.

The elf behind her was rising but she showed no acknowledgement of that fact, simply expecting the silence around her and the sound of blood rushing in her ears to be accompanied by the constant muttering of the elf. She flinched when he started screaming. She drew her knees tighter to her chest and her breathing quickened as the elf screamed with agony, piercingly and she gritted her teeth. Had she not been so consumed by fear and so shaken by the pure horror she heard in his outcry she would have admonished him to keep quiet, lest he pull the attention of the stationed Orcs, which sat around listlessly, occasionally taunting their prey. She was left to feel helplessness, as she continued to listen to the elf's scream willing herself to speak up and tell him to keep quiet, calm him down, but not finding her voice.

She let out a panicked sob, when she heard the sound of a heavy, steel sword clattering against the wooden beams of their cage. The Orcs' attention had been pulled to them!

Silent sobs wreaked her slight form and she buried her head in her arms and drew herself impossibly tighter together, wishing to take up the least amount of space possible and to possibly disappear. She closed her eyes and felt tears of terror run down her cheek as the screams of the elf mingled with the shrill cries of delight from the Orcs. She heard the sound of the cage door being opened. The shrill creaking of the hinges scratching painfully on her ear. She heard the sound of rushing and felt heavy footsteps pass her by, before the sound of struggling joined the dismal melody and the sound of the elf's fear became more pronounced. She kept her eyes closed and her head buried in her arms, hidden, as she heard the Orcs yank the elf out of the cell. The elf screamed and shrieked and then she heard the sound of a heavy palm colliding with flesh and for a moment, silence rained over her. She held her breath, as the sounds had subsided and she hated that. She hated that everything was so silent now, because she had longed for the noise to come to an end, but now that silence spread throughout the location, she felt intense horror, it was the calm before the storm and she hated it.

But then, the eery silence was replaced with the sound of tearing fabric and tearing and the elf's scream of excruciating pain and she had to resist the urge to scream out loud in her agony. Then suddenly the sound of his screams ceased and was replaced with more tearing and the sound of the Orc's grunts and the sound of obscene chewing and biting. Immediately, her hands flew to her ears. She screwed her eyes shut tightly and gritted her teeth and her form was trembling. She gritted her teeth, as she tried to drown out the sound of the Orcs devouring her previous cell mate.

She did not know how long she had remained in this position, tears streaming down her face and nausea overcoming every inch of her. She did not perceive how suddenly, the sounds of the Orcs ceased and silence once more blanketed her. She was only roused out of her catatonic shock, when she felt something being thrown at her and impacting with her legs. Gingerly, she looked up not knowing why and she looked down and was met with the sight of the elf's head, his fair features contorted into a pained grimace and blood splattered over his ashen skin. Her jaw slackened, her eyes widened and she felt the scream that longed to rip out of her throat lodging itself in the middle of her throat. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out as she looked down at the severed head of the elf who had previously sat crouched in her cell. For a few, endless seconds she looked down at the remains of the elf, shocked into paralysis.

When her eyes flickered up and to the remains of the elf in the hall, so much blood gnawed rib bones, only then did she emit a wet sob and scrambled away, turning her back to gruesome sight before her.

She felt despair and pure and undiluted fear, she felt helpless and a worrying sense of defeat was starting to make its way through her body. Deranged by fear, she did not ponder on anything else and simply sobbed, and amidst these sounds, she managed to cry out: "Please, Thorin... I need you." It did not cross her mind that he was the first person she thought of in her fear, in her attempt to dispel it. She did not ponder that he was the only thing she thought about momentarily. She did not think that she needed him... only wanted him at this moment, that she wanted this man who hated her surely. She did not think that subconsciously she realized... that she loved him. That he had somehow, despite his bitterness and his coldness toward almost everything managed to make her love him, even when she had sworn to herself that she would never fall in love, lest she become like her mother. She did not think about the fact that she now knew that she loved Thorin Oakenshield with an intensity and with a fierceness that even startled her at times. That she would love him even Long after her last autumn had passed. That she loved him and not the heroic motif of her dreams. She thought of nothing else, but her wish that he would save her. She did not ponder on the fact that she was cruelly aware of the fact... that he would not come for her. She only knew that she needed to get out of here, dead or alive she ceased to care. She only needed to get out of this hell, or she'd go mad for sure.

* * *

**AN- First of all let me say thank you, for your awesome Reviews last chapter! You guys rock! 3 **

**I know what you must be thinking. Seriously ria, you are starting the third book with such a gruesome chapter. Well... yes! (blushes)**

** I just though that it was necessary to be a bit more explicit and dramatic, especially as she is in Azogs dungeon. Well all know Azog, he isn't really daisies and sunshine is he? Poor Laurel though!**

**Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed (?) the chapter and please read and Review (as always your kind words Keep me going)**

**QOTW: How do you think our Little Hobbit will get out of this Situation? **


	26. Awake praying to aGod I don't believe in

Chapter 2

_"For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, in the sepulchre there by the sea, in her tomb by the sounding sea."- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe_

He couldn't sleep.

Night had fallen long ago. His quiescent company had retired a few hours back and the quietude of the night was broken by the periodical snoring of his kin. The company, which tonight had not sat around the campfire after having set up shelter for the night and told humorous stories. Bofur had not sang one of his infamous ballads in his deeply accented voice, but had sat beside his cousins in silent solemn reverie, occasionally glancing worriedly at their burglar. Bombur and Bifur had kept their gazes lowered to the ground during this time, Bombur with clear shame and self-deprecation marring his face probably arising during reflection on his behavior towards her. Bifur's expression had been one of undiluted sorrow and occasionally Thorin had felt his accusing gaze on his back. The rest of the company had shown similar behavior as Bombur, all had kept silent and contemplative and they had shown clear regret at their behavior towards the little half-elf in the last few weeks. Even Dwalin, who Thorin at times thought was even more contemptuous than even him toward the race of elves. Even Dwalin had kept mournfully quiet, as they descended the Carrock and set up camp for the night. His nephews... He had practically been able to feel the resentment radiating off them. His nephews had grown uncharacteristically grave and he had realized that the girl meant much more to them, than he had previously thought. And as he had looked at them and the light of the flames of the campfire, which had long gone out now, had thrown shadows across their faces only serving to further bring out the sorrow in their blue eyes, he had thought for a single moment that his nephews had fallen for her. His entire company had become fond of the fiery girl with her kind heart and her beaming smile, he could see that now. The burglar had been inconsolable and had kept to himself, even refusing the company of the wizard and of Bofur whom he had befriended, but all were grieved at the girl's capture.

He couldn't sleep.

He knew that he should be resting and regaining his strength, especially after he had been gravelly wounded during the confrontation with that Orcish Filth. He knew it had been foolhardy to confront the Pale Orc, but he had been so angry. An emotion he knew well, for now he realized that he had always been angry, ever since the day that fire drake had come and had taken from him everything that had mattered to him. Ever since Smaug had come and had brought with it the misery that would constantly haunt Thorin's life. For decades anger had been the only emotion that had resided within him. He had been angry when he had to lead his inconsolable people, who had once been so mighty but now were brought low. When he'd had to lead them to poor lodgings in exile. He had been angry when he had been forced to take work in that black smith in Bree, manufacturing swords for those arrogant individuals who looked down at him for being a dwarf. He had been so angry every night he'd had to go to sleep on that narrow straw bed and he'd remember the opulence of his former halls as he looked up at the wooden ceiling of his chamber. He had been angry when Dain, the dwarfs of the Iron Hills had refused him help when they had surely disfruited of their affluence when Thror had still ruled under the Lonely Mountain. He had always been angry... when he had lost his father and his grandfather on the same fateful day. _Cruel and heartless_, a dulcet soft voice whispered in his mind. Thorin pursed his lips and shook his head slightly, as if in hopes of shaking off the voice, _her_ voice. In hopes of shaking off the thoughts that ghosted in his head and that would not let him sleep.

He couldn't sleep.

He couldn't find rest because of his thoughts that created a chaotic disarray within him. Thoughts of her. He knew that the honorable thing would have been to go back for her. That he should have gone back for her, especially when time and time again she had sacrificed herself for his quest. When even after he had allowed her to get tortured in goblin town at the hands of that odious goblin chieftain, she had rescued him by stepping in between him and that Orc with his sword raised, prepared to bring it down on him. He thought of her fate. Rationally, he knew that it would be better if she was dead. That it would surely be more merciful if she had died, than her being at the hands of that odious creature who had once more caused a gaping sense of loss within Thorin. He knew that it would be better than the images that now ran through his mind and that tormented him- images of blood coating her rose red hair, images of her horrified gaze and her fair skin marred by blood and ugly injuries. And the sounds of her screams accompanied those images that made his heart constrict tightly in his chest. Her scream- the same heart wrenching, piercing sound that had taunted him in goblin town. The sound that had made his insides freeze and his heart stop. The sounds that had him feel ice-cold dread. The sound that he had never wanted her to ever emit again. Yet the thought of the light going out in those deep pools of blue distressed him more than he could have ever admitted.

But he had left her.

He had left her with Azog, that vicious monster who took from him everything that... who had taken her, the only thing in his life that... that did not make him feel anger constantly. Ever since they had met, she had taken him on a myriad of emotions that had left him incredibly disconcerted and disoriented. Until now all he could remember was being angry and bitter, but since he had met her...

He wondered if his guilt made his thoughts and his feelings for the red-haired girl of the Shire more prominent.

But he knew better now.

He knew better than to attribute his emotions to simple guilt, to attribute the fact that ever since she had come into his life he had not felt the constant bitterness he had become so used to in the last hundred years. He knew better than to attribute these sensations that she had awakened within him to his guilt at having abandoned her.

He knew better.

He should have known better for a long time. He should have known better that fateful night in the Shire, that seemed so long ago, when she had called him out and he had turned and seen her for the very first time and at the first sight of her lovely face he had felt as if he had been hit by a freight train. He should have known that night when she had spoken to him and expressed her compassion for him and his heart had burned in his chest at the sight of her impossibly blue eyes looking up at him through her thick lashes and her face framed by that sea of rose red curls.

He should have known better those times when she had made him literally dizzy with desire, that night when they had been captured by trolls or the afternoon after that when she'd had her sword fighting lessons and they had stood so close that her floral, candid scent had infiltrated his nostrils and had dulled his senses so that for a moment only she existed. And her face had been so close to his and the urge to own those rosy, pouty lips had been so great and he'd had to literally wrench himself off her. Or when he'd scooped her up into his arms after she'd hurt her ankle in a foolhardy attempt to save Kili and her hands that were smaller than the rain's had come around his neck and she'd held onto him like a small child. Those small hands, _so small_, that were warm and soft as clouds and which's contact with his skin had left him with a yearning so intense, he'd started.

He should have known better during those several incidents when he felt that he'd grow mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face. When she had gone up to Bifur and had smiled at him so brightly that he'd thought she rivaled the sun in its splendor. When his nephews had gifted her that sword and she had been so grateful. That night when Balin had been telling them of his battle against Azog and he had turned around to be met with her incredulous face. Or those several times when she'd simply smiled with amenity at the members of his company, when Fili and Kili would tell her a humorous story, when he could see her eyes shining with fondness for her cousin, when she and Bifur were sat together in companionable silence.

He should have known that night in Rivendell when he'd been so angry at his discovery of her deception and he had confronted her, and he had gripped her and then at perciving their proximity his rage had slowly morphed to longing lust and fierce possessiveness.

Oh, how he had resented himself. How he had resented himself for the fact that he still wanted her, despite knowing that she was an elf. How he had resented the fact that his eyes would still succor his company in search of the glimpse of fiery red, even when he knew of her deception. How he resented the fact that what had angered him and pained him the most about the discovery of her heritage was not the fact that she was indeed an elf, but that she seemed to have become even more unattainable, that she had danced even more out of his reach.

And how he had resented her. Resented her, because she had lied to him, resented her because she had put herself out of his reach once more. How he had resented her when he'd felt such all-consuming, caustic jealousy during their struggles in the Misty Mountains when in agony and worry over the halfling's fate as he dangled off the cliff, she'd exclaimed that she loved her cousin more than anything else- that she loved the burglar and if he died nothing else mattered to her. How he had resented her when she'd told him that she would rather die before becoming as cruel and heartless as him. How he had resented her at the pang of hurt he had felt at her words.

He knew now.

Ever since the moment he had first met Laurel Took, she had awakened something within him. Something that he'd never thought he'd feel, something that he'd thought inexistent in him, something that he had thought himself incapable of, and for that he hated her.

_Wherever you lead, I shall follow,_ he heard her dulcet voice whisper across his mind. Time and time again she'd proven her loyalty to him, to the quest. Time and time again, she'd proven that her heart was pure and willing. Had he not said to Balin that this was all he could ask of any member of his company? In her case, why had it not been enough for him? He'd felt the need to push her away time and time again. He'd had to resist her every time he'd felt the warmth of her gaze on his back. He'd pushed her away, he'd surrendered to his prejudice against her race and he'd mistreated her. And now he was left with bitter regret at that. If he had known that his time with her would be so short. If he had known that now that she was gone, only a distant painful memory, that she was all he could think about, that now everything else seemed only secondary in his mind. If he had known that he would come to think that without her his world could disintegrate to ash, he wouldn't care, than he wouldn't have wasted his time on his foolish prejudice. If he had known that she would be gone so soon, he wouldn't have wasted time.

_I would follow you anywhere_, were the last words he heard before his eyelids dropped and he allowed the blissful ignorance of sleep to envelop him.

* * *

When he opened his eyes next, he knew not how much time had passed. He took no note if dawn was also approaching in the horizon. All he saw were cornflower blue eyes.

Eyes framed by thick, long lashes.

Eyes that shone with the kindness that drew him to her like a moth to a flame, and smiled at him.

Eyes that had drawn him in since the first moments of their acquaintance and left him reeling.

Incredulously but with an elating sense of relief making his heartbeat quicken, he breathed: "Laurel?" He saw those rosy, pouty lips, lips that he wanted to kiss and own quirk upwards at their corner and she smiled down at him at his whisper of her name. His eyes flickered across her face, drinking in every detail of her lovely visage like a thirsting man. He studied her eyes, those warm pools that would look at him with fire within them and at times with such heart rendering emotion that caused him to become breathless. He took in her lips, those red lips that bloomed on her face like an exotic blossom contrasted by her creamy skin. A curl of her red hair fell haphazardly across her cheek and Thorin, drunk at the sight of her, raised his hand and gingerly touched it, caressing it in his finger, satiating his untamable curiosity of how her hair would feel in his hands, before he tucked the curl back. Her tiny fingers, slowly almost reluctantly, approached him and she allowed them to ghost over the weathered lines of his face. His breathing hitched and he raised his head, needing to get closer to those pouty, parted lips. Wanting to kiss her, needing her.

Yet when he was close, so close that he imagined he could already feel the satin of her lips and taste her sweetness, her fingers that had tenderly caressed his cheek and which's touch he had leaned into disappeared and he felt her pulling away from him. In a desperate attempt to keep her, he embraced her to him and whispered with yearning anguish: "No... please stay."

He saw her eyes drop from his and he knew that he was revealing all his emotions to her. All that he felt for her in his eyes.

Yet he did not care.

Not when he had just lost her.

Not when he was quickly discovering that he adored every facet of her and he wanted, needed her to love him with that same desperate intensity.

"Please stay and make this bearable." Her eyes raised back to his and she cocked her head inquisitively at the vagueness of his words. "Stay and make my life bearable," he whispered to her and he once more raised his head in an attempt to capture her lips, to finally satiate some of his burning hunger for her.

Yet once more she pulled away from him and he opened his eyes to see her shaking her head sadly and she said to him: "I can't. You know I can't." With rejection flowing through his veins his face contorted and he whispered back to her: "Why not?" She pulled away even more and then with an impassive, yet mocking expression she said: "I love Bilbo. I wouldn't leave him. I love him and no other."

He could no longer bear to look at her. He looked away from her.

From that beautiful, sweet, terrible face that he wanted but could never have.

That now taunted him in its loveliness, that mocked him with the knowledge that no matter how much he was willing to give up for her she would never be his.

He closed his eyes and his brow furrowed in his disappointment at her rejection. Yet he also felt determination, determination to not give her up, to have her, determination for her. Once this urge got too strong to resist he was about to open his mouth and tell her of his determination pertaining her, was prepared to once more beg her to remain with him.

Yet when he opened his eyes he no longer looked into those pools of blue. He looked around him and saw bloodshed and battle and Azog stood before him, smiling down at him with a sadistic expression, his narrowed dead eyes shone with vicious nefarious delight. His crude, curved blade was raised and poised at his neck. Thorin's eyes flickered across the landscape around him and all he saw was death. His grandfather's severed head rolling down, away from him mockingly. His father's previously proud and powerful posture, as he lay on the ground with a wooden spear protruding from his body, his face contorted in grotesque, pained expression. He watched with horror, as his eldest nephew, the one he had cared for and taught and who would have carried on his legacy his predecessor, fell after a well-aimed arrow pierced his neck and blood gushed out of his wound. His mouth opened and he let out a silent scream, as he saw his youngest nephew being torn apart by a crazed, vicious goblin. He watched as his eldest friends, Balin and Dwalin fell. And above all he heard her distressing scream and he gritted his teeth at the sound and were his hand not bound to his back he would've raised them to his ear to block out the sound that seemed to tear at his insides. He felt Azog readjust the blade at his neck and Thorin raised his chin and begged his nemesis: "Please. End this now."

With distressed eyes, he saw how Azog smiled down at him maliciously, delighting himself at the dwarf's humiliation, before he whispered: "I shall send you to hell where you belong, dwarf scum." Thorin closed his eyes and awaited the blow, awaited that which would free him. "But I can't", he heard the Orc's deep voice state and Thorin's eyes opened themselves in surprise at the Orc's words, feeling defeat once more take a hold of him, dreading his continued penance in this nightmare.

She was once more there and was smiling down at him. She would've been so beautiful with her savage hair in a long braid down her back and wearing her adventurer's clothes, had it not been for the large, growing vibrant red stain of blood on her white shirt and the paleness of her lips. She kneeled down beside him and stood so close to him, so close that their noses were touching.

"He can't. He can't send you to hell." She whispered in his ears and those lips brushed gingerly across his earlobes and on the skin beneath his ear and Thorin shivered at the sensation of her lips on his skin. Arousal was rising within him, a burning inferno, as her small, soft, warm body pressed against his and he was enveloped by her floral, innocent scent and he feared that he would go mad with his longing for her. Her small fingers gripped his shoulders, as her lips continued their teasing ghosting ministrations on his neck and she once more whispered: "Azog can't send you to hell." His heart was racing in his chest and he pulled on the bindings at his wrist, willing them to loosen, so he could get his arms around her and pull her closer to him. Unable to do so, he leaned closer to her, desperate for her and stuttered, as he intently felt the warmth in his body which spread through his veins like wildfire: "Wh- Wh- Why not?" She stiffened in his arms, then slowly almost predatorially she looked up at him. Her lovely mouth was twisted into an ugly sneer, as she whispered: "You are already there."

* * *

He sat up as he awakened from his dream and cradled his head in his hand, as he looked incredulously at the ground before him. He did not have enough time to ponder on the implications of his dream, before Bali approached him to wake him. The rest of the day's march, he was haunted by the images of his nightly vision.


	27. Caught between the weight of all unsaid

Chapter 3

_"I only knew what hunted thought quickened his step, and why he looked upon the garish day with such a wistful eye; The man had killed the thing he loved and so he had to die."- Ballad of Reading Gaoul, Oscar Wilde_

They were just to arrive at Beorn's hall. It had not been a long day's march. The dwarves, Bilbo and him had packed up their camp as the first light of the day brightened the first strip of the horizon before him and the sky above them slowly turned from the inky blackness known at night to a more mellow shade of light grey. They had walked at a leisurely pace and the sun was now stood low on the western side of the heavens above them, likely setting in the vicinities of Mirkwood, as Gandalf led the company of Thorin Oakenshield along the twisting paths lined with lush green, dense forest on either side of them.

No, not the entire company. One individual was missing from their assembly and all the men seemed to feel her absence seeping through their bones, as the humming sound of conversation which was normally present during the day's march was lacking or distinctly muted and did not carry the same carefree amusement that Gandalf had grown accustomed to from the dwarves of Erebor. _Who'd think that the absence of such a tiny being would cause such a great impact on them all, _Gandalf would at times think with melancholy wonder, as he would allow his eyes to succour each and every dwarf and would see their solemnity in the heavy setting of their brows and detect their guilt in the slumping of their broad, armour covered shoulders. He would look at Bilbo Baggins and he would see his poignancy due to the lack of the sparkle the burglar usually carried in his eyes, that Tookish sparkle, which had told Gandalf that Bilbo Baggins and Laurel Took would have indeed come on their journey despite their initial reluctance. The sparkle, which had assured Gandalf that he would've indeed won the bet he had struck with the dwarves, while they had been riding through the woods surrounding Hobbiton. The sparkle that he had always seen in her bright blue orbs and that had been always more pronounced in his brown eyes whenever he had been around her and her enthusiasm at the adventure the two Shirelings had become involved in had been so great, that not even Bilbo's conservative and more subdued Baggins' side had been able to resist it. The sparkle that was now blatantly missing from his hazel eyes. He would at times glimpse the resentful looks that Thorin's nephews would shoot him. Fili and Kili, the two dwarves which held such a juvenile awe of Thorin and the image they had of him, as a sovereign, just, wise leader. As the image they held and expected of him as king under the mountain. The two young dwarves who took such great efforts to prove themselves to the man, who they idolized, who had been their tutor for all of their lives.

He figured that the most prominent emotion within him was shock. Shock at having lost her. Shock at having allowed the young girl to have been captured. Shock and self-deprecation at having allowed Belladonna's little niece, the girl whom he had been introduced to when she was a slip of a girl barely reaching his knees, who had hid her already lovely features behind a savage curtain of red, but who after his display of fireworks he had caught looking at him with a look of young astonishment in her impossibly blue eyes. Shock at having lost her, when he knew that it had been his words coupled with her Tookish huger for adventure that had caused her ultimate demise. Shock at having lost the one who he had deemed so essential for the quest, because she gave him hope, because he associated with her such genuine and heart-rendering kindness and compassion. Shock at having lost the fiery young girl, whose fierceness amused him but who allowed to hope even as he could feel, in his bones, that darkness was slowly approaching and taking a hold of everything around him. He felt disbelief at continuously perceiving her absence. Disbelief that as he looked over his shoulders, he would perceive the absence of the fiery red mane and of her face which looked down with a slight smile or her eyes which would look up at her walking companion Bifur with such innocent and sincere gratitude. He would not see her ocassionally gesturing at the reticent dwarf with the axe in his head and him responding by looking down warmly at the girl by his side. Now all he saw was Bifur walking with a gaping void by his side, his jaw set and an angry look in his eyes. Blaming himself for her absence, blaming them all for her absence.

Guilt, a feeling that was not prominent within Gandalf, but which he knew all dwarves felt. Guilt at not having gone back for her. Guilt at having abandoned one of their company. Guilt at their harsh behaviour toward the girl, who had surprised them all at first with her compassionate nature and her gentle way which Gandalf thought contrasted so completely from the gruff and suspicious behaviour known of dwarves. Guilt at having left the girl, who they had all shunned after discovering her true heritage, something which Gandalf had been so determined to keep a secret, to prevent the pain and mistreatment Laurel had experienced during those last days. Even without seeing their slumped shoulders and hearing the grating silence that blanketed them, Gandalf could feel the guilt radiating off every dwarf.

He looked ahead and his lips twisted up into a small smile as the low wooden house of the skin-changer came into view. The wooden, long cabin had a white exterior with a dark wooden beams periodically shooting throughout the length of it and a light straw roof with two chimneys near the centre of it from which white smoke rose like a warm curtain, like the smoke that rose from the tip of his pipe when he would indulge in smoking some late afternoon pipe weed. As soon as they came to a wooden gate, high and broad, beyond it they could see gardens the likes of which he had only seen in the Shire with its thick hedges that were green with occasional splutters of vibrant red and yellow and orange. On the southward side of the great hedge were rows and rows of hives with bell-shaped tops made of straw. There was cluster of low wooden buildings, which were thatched and made of unshapely logs. The barns, stables shed and the central house were surrounded by a circular gate of pine trees which shoot high into the warm orange, late afternoon sky, the same trees threw large, static shadows on the ground causing the grass to turn from light green to a darker hue of the colour. The serene silence weighed heavily on him and made the noise of giant bees flying to and fro and crawling in and out more pronounced and the buzzing sound filled the air around him.

As soon as they had reached the gate, Gandalf stopped and turned around to face the company of Thorin Oakenshield. He broke the silence and addressed them: "This will be enough distance for all of us together. The master of these halls, Beorn, is not overly fond of visitors and dwarves. To save us from his temper, I believe it would be wise to present him with you in twos. I will go on then, with Master Baggins and when it is safe, I will give a whistle. Come on, then each of you in pairs, every five minutes." He turned toward the only gap in the hedge and as he was beginning to walk down the narrow cobblestone path with Bilbo at his side, he felt the need to look over his shoulder to once more address the company of dwarves warningly: "It would be good if you were on your best behaviour."

Bilbo and him rounded a bent in the hedge and the company disappeared from sight. As they walked along the green pastures, they had drawn the attention of several animals. Tall mares with sleek coats and flowing manes, young goats with healthy thighs and glistening fur. Animals with intelligent and curious eyes that mustered them for a few seconds before they trotted off in the direction of the house, no doubt to tell their master of their imminent arrival. Him and Bilbo approached the house in reticent, contemplative silence. The house of the man Beorn, who could change his skin at will, who was sometimes a man who lived in an oak wooden house, other times he roamed the landscapes of Middle Earth far and wide in the form of a huge black bear. No one knew for sure in which form he had been born. Some people said that he was a bear descended from the ancient great bears that lived in the mountains before the giants came there. Others said he was a man who's forefather were among the first men and lived in this part of the world even before dragons flew in the sky and the goblins came down from the north. He worried how he would address the skin changer: He was a king enough soul for most part, but possessed a quick temper that you did not want to bring out. They would have to watch themselves.

As they rounded the corner of the house, their eyes set sight on the great giant of the man who was the skin changer and beside him he felt Bilbo flinch and draw deeper into his robes in intimidation of the man's size and gruff appearance. He was very tall, a few inches higher than he himself and he had a thick black beard and thick hair and his broad shoulders and stocky form made him appear quite strong, an image that was only further brought out as the giant man leant on the thick, wooden axe, which's sharp steel edge glinted in the sun, that he had been using to chop wood before their appearance. The man's dark, beady eyes took them in and for a moment Gandalf felt the silence, which seemed as broad as the man before them, stretch out the length of the pasture.

It was finally broken after a few, long seconds, when the man emitted a chuckle and over his shoulders addressed a great, white mare with strong thighs and a pure white coat that had been milling on the pastures when they had first come in and now stood behind his master in a display of protectiveness: "They don't seem as dangerous as you would have me believe." He made a shooing motion with his hand and said: "Be off with ye!" in a gruff, deep mutter to which the animal complied readily.

"So what do we have here?" The skin changer addressed them directly for the first time and raised one bushy brow at them. Gandalf was quick to reply the skin changer and introduced himself: "I am Gandalf..." Seeing that the name seemed to raise no effect or recognition from the man before him, he continued: "I am a wizard. if you have not heard of me, I believe that you shall be familiar with my good cousin Radagast, the Brown, who lives on the southern border of Mirkwood?" At seeing the man's short nod of acquiescence, Gandalf felt a burst of encouragement within him and he continued with rising confidence: "This is Mr. Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire. We have travelled from the Blue Mountain and the Shire to get here and our company still has a good way to go until we reach the destination of our quest. We come here to ask for your aid and hope for your hospitality, Master Beorn."

He saw the skin changer lift both of his bushy brows in response to his words and with a deep voice, he questioned: "The company? There are more of you?" Following Gandalf's nod of confirmation, the broad man continued: "What is this quest you speak of? To where are you heading and with what purpose? What drove you to cross the mountains and what of the rest of you? I should acquiesce to your wish of aid, should it find your reason justifiable."

Seeing the genuine curiosity and intrigue in the skin-changer eye's, Gandalf started his tale about the company of Thorin Oakenshield and his quest to the Lonely Mountain. They moved to the veranda of Beorn's home and were perched on a wooden bench, as he recounted the tale of the dwarves company. He told Beorn of their time in the Shire, before the quest began. He told of Bilbo's recruitment carefully leaving out Laurel their lost girl, in fear that Beorn would turn them away for having lost a woman or having taken her on the journey in the first place. He told him of their travel through the mountains and their struggles to get out of goblin town, and Gandalf saw his mood darken at the mention of the grotesque creatures. The wizard also recounted their run in with Azog, the Pale Orc and had chased up into the trees and that they had been quite beaten up by the Wargs until they had found their escape with the great eagles. He was adamant to include Bilbo's stand down with the Orc and he resisted the urge to chuckle amusedly, when he saw the hobbit's discomfort at the speculative look and the raised eyebrow his courage had earned him from Beorn.

During it all the dwarves found their way to them. They came and bowed and offered greeting, and though one could clearly see that Beorn was not much fond of dwarves he waved them down to sit every time, and with each interruption of his story he noted that skin-changer only got more eager to hear more of their journey. Truly this curiosity at their tale was something he had been relying upon to distract the skin-changer of his obvious reticence and suspicion toward dwarves.

Thorin came first with Balin and they had taken their seats next to her, and then Oin and Gloin had arrived, and Fili and Kili. By the time Bombur had come puffing down the track behind Bofur and Bifur Gandalf had near finished telling the man of how they had been dropped off at the carrock, and how they had then found their way to his house.

The wizard had told Beorn of their heading to the Lonely Mountain, and about Smaug the dragon, he even asked Thorin to

Show the man the map and key too, for it would increase the credibility of their tale. There was no need to worry over secrecy: Beorn had no reason to tell anyone, and he would not. Thorin gave it up rather easily: it only took one subtle kick from him before he stood and dug into his pockets with almost unnoticeable hesitation.

Overall the whole thing took near an hour, but that was all quickly forgotten when Beorn rose after a final look at them all and offered them food. "As is deserved from such a good story at least. I may need to check some facts for myself before I fully believe it, but I like it, and should like it all the more if it is true." Beorn stated before rising and excusing himself. The wizard watched as the tall man crossed his gate before changing into the form of a great black bear and leaving the company of Thorin Oakenshield to enjoy a meal of honey and cream.

It was later as Gandalf observed the rising moon to the east, sat on the same wooden bench on the veranda where he had told Beorn their story with a smoking pipe clutched in his hand, that Thorin Oakenshield came up to him and sat down beside him with his own pipe of weed. Gandalf made no acknowledgement of Thorin's arrival and they sat quietly for a few long minutes both looking out at the inky black sky and the previously comfortable, contented silence that had blanketed Gandalf gave way to a tenser loaded reticence.

Differently from the other members of the company, Gandalf had not observed Thorin Oakenshield and his reaction to Laurel's capture. He hadn't needed to. He knew Thorin Oakenshield's feelings, the same feelings that the proud king under the mountain was so in denial over. He hadn't needed to look at Thorin Oakenshield to know of the sadness that now took their seat in his grey blue irises and that replaced the bitterness and anger that Gandalf found so destructive. He hadn't needed to see Thorin awake startled from his sleep, his face a clear, contorted mask of pain and longing to know what the king of the dwarves felt after Laurel's capture and his subsequent abandonment of her. Gandalf hadn't looked at Thorin to not feel disapproval rising within his chest at Thorin's obstinacy and his continued prejudice.

"He will hunt me.", Thorin's deep voice shattered the silence between them and Gandalf kept his gaze straight, while listening to the proud dwarf's words: "He longs to purge the line of Durin. He will hunt me now that he has found me." Gandalf nodded in acquiescence to his words, knowing the truth behind the dwarf's words and he said: "Yes, he will."

"I should leave." Gandalf moved his gaze to the dwarves king and he saw that the man had his brows drawn together and was looking straight to the rising moon with a look of clear pain in his eyes and Gandalf felt slight discomfort at seeing the dwarf, whose impassiveness he had become so used to displaying such emotion of regret in his eyes. Yet he kept observing Thorin Oakenshield as he declared: "I should leave the company. I put them all in danger now, that he will come for me." Gandalf felt incredulity rise within him as he perceived Thorin's resignation, his defeat. "What about the quest?", he asked questioning his true intentions regarding reclaiming Erebor, something Gandalf knew he had dreamt of ever since the day that the Lonely Mountain had been claimed by Smaug.

Thorin scoffed unamusedly and bitterly stated: "It hardly seems to matter now." His eyes darkened and in a pained, contemplative whisper he added: "Now nothing seems to matter."

"I should have left the company as soon as that goblin chieftain told me of Azog's survival." Thorin spat and straightened his spine, once more assuming his proud posture. "I should have left as soon as I had suspected any risk to her, to their lives. I should have never let it get so far. Now, I... we have lost her."

Gandalf raised his chin and looked down at the brooding, defeated dwarf and stated: "Her loss can also be attributed to your abandonment of her. Remember Thorin, her blood is on your hands and there it shall remain." Thorin pursed his lips in response to Gandalf's words and looked down angrily but with guilt written in his eyes. For a few, long seconds the king of the dwarves of Erebor said nothing, under clear inner turmoil, but then he spat: "I told you during the council at Bag End, that I would not be responsible for her safety or her fate. That has not changed." Gandalf looked away angrily from the unrelenting dwarf and puffed on his pipe, before stating: "I do wonder how long you will continue to deny yourself, Thorin. I wonder how long you will continue to fool yourself, when it is so painfully obvious that you are all but indifferent to what became of her." He felt the dwarf stiffen beside him in response to his claim and so he remained for a few long seconds, like the most unyielding stone, like the stone that constituted his home.

Once more both him and Thorin said nothing for a short while, and they were once more clouded with silence that was now tense with realizations and accusations. Gandalf had expected Thorin to depart, to leave after the accusations that Gandalf had hurled at him. He had expected that Thorin would storm off angrily after the wizard had wounded his pride, so he was caught when Thorin's voice penetrated the silence and the steel edge that normal accompanied his tone was missing, as he asked: "Why did you insist she come on this quest?" Gandalf looked at him and his genuine curiosity at what Gandalf had seen in Laurel that had caused him to believe that she was essential for the quest. There was no accusation, no indication that Thorin believed he should be held accountable for his insistence at her recruitment. He softened and with a fond smile, he answered: "She gives me hope." Thorin turned to him and his eyes looked at the reminiscing wizard with an unreadable emotion in his gaze.

"Darkness approaches us and while some prefer to remain blind to it even though it shall not be blind to us, I choose to see it. Contrary to popular belief, I have found that it is not the great displays of courage and the prowess on the battle field that keeps darkness at bay." Thorin looked down at the wizard's words, but Gandalf could still clearly feel his attention to his response. "I am afraid. Afraid of an enemy that I cannot yet see. I am afraid of this world where the small acts of kindness and love that keep darkness at bay are inexistent." Gandalf stated gravely and sighed heavily, as he remembered his conversation with the Lady Galadriel and if he closed his eyes, he could recall her wise silver eyes and the promise she had given him while encasing his hand with her elegant ones. "It is the small acts that make that make a difference, Thorin. Those sincere compassionate small acts of kindness and love that came so naturally to her and that she gave out so freely. She gives... gave me hope." He smiled fondly as he recalled the first time he had seen genuine elation replacing young Bilbo's solemnity during the Solstice Festival after Laurel's arrival, when she had taken his hand and had not let it go the entire night, as if he had been her lifeline. "Laurel Arya Took had the remarkable ability to give even the most resigned man hope," he whispered lowly.

Thorin rose shortly after and joined his company in the dining hall, while he continued to sit perched on the wooden bench watching the slow trajectory of the moon in the sky above.

* * *

He sat beside his brother and looked down at the jug of ale between his hand with regret. Regret, the feeling that was most prominent within him, the feeling that would not allow him to enjoy the first proper jug of ale he'd had in so long. Regret, that made the warm ale feel heavy and cold within him and which caused him to look down sadly at the golden liquid before him.

Regret. Oh, he felt such regret. To such an extent that he had not believed possible due to his young years. He'd thought that his beard would have grown, long and thick and white like Balin's before he felt this overwhelming feeling that tore at his insides like a sharp knife. Perhaps, he had thought, perhaps he would have never had to experience this gnawing feeling of regret, of the acknowledgement of loss and missed opportunities, the one he had been able to detect in his uncle's gaze even from a very young age. Perhaps, he'd thought and sincerely hoped, that he would never have to adopt the melancholic and bitter nature of Thorin's posture as his own.

But now he was filled with regret. He was grateful for those few short moments of bliss. Those short seconds of heaven before everything had turned dreadful once more. Those minutes where he had embraced her soft form and whispered his apology in her ears and with every fibre of his being he had begged her forgiveness for his stupidity at having disregarded her. Those few short seconds of rapture when he'd felt her warmth and she had returned his embrace and laid her soft cheek on his shoulder and his heart had soared at her forgiveness. He knew that if he had not had those short seconds of felicity, the regret he now felt would have buried him under its tidal wave.

Regret, he felt such regret at his apathy, at his idiocy because he had allowed his stupid prejudice that had been ingrained within him to loose those precious, few seconds he'd had with her. That he had deprived himself of her compassionate nature and bright smiles and of her face, because he had been intimidated by his uncle's ire. He cursed himself because he had been so stupid, because he'd never taken into consideration that she could be gone. He'd never thought of that, because she had always been so determined to help them reclaim Erebor and to see the quest through to the end, because she had been so vivacious and bright and young. How could he ever have expected that such a young girl would ever be gone. He cursed himself for having denied himself the pleasure of her fleeting company. He'd have clung to her fiercely, if he'd known that there was ever the possibility of her being gone he would have fiercely fought against it.

All that remained now of her was memories- bitter memories for Kili could never bear to give them up but that only caused his longing for her to increase painfully. Memories of her smile, of those long red tresses, of that ivory creamy skin, of those rosy lips, those kind impossibly blue eyes that shone like the heavens above. Memories of her dulcet voice, of her fierceness and her obstinacy and her courage, memories of the hope she gave him because who could have ever doubted the success of a girl who had been so determinedly fixated on restoring them to their rightful halls.

"We could have saved her." he heard his brother mutter angrily beside them. Kili had recognized his brother's feeling towards Laurel, the affection they both shared for her only earlier this morning when he'd seen the dark, angry, resentful glare he'd thrown at Thorin. He'd realized that his brother shared his feelings over Laurel when he'd seen him looking at the man he'd grown up with a fierce and awed respect over. He supposed that he had subconsciously grasped that Fili's feelings for Laurel were all but platonic, each time he'd grown chagrined at his lingering touches and looks at the red-haired girl. He should have grown angry or at least worried over both of their feelings, but he'd been unable to when he'd seen the regret he felt mirrored in his brother's eyes. But whereas Kili's was more resigned, Fili's was fiercely resentful. Something he could see as his brother raised his head and glared in the direction of their uncle and with aloud voice he announced: "We could have saved her had it not been for the prejudice of some."

Thorin looked up from his meal and Kili saw his stormy eyes momentarily flash with indignation and for a moment he feared that Thorin would have grown angry and admonished them with the same fierceness they had always feared while growing up. But then his uncle's angry expression dropped and his face fell, before he rose and took his leave, leaving the members of their company to stare incredulously at his retreating back. At this display of apparent indifference he should've bristled just as he felt Fili beside him do. But he could not do so, and he looked down into the interior of his ale jug. He could not anger at Thorin's indifference toward Laurel's fate, because for a moment Kili had thought, when he'd seen the look in Thorin's eyes before he departed, that Thorin felt everything but indifference at Laurel's demise.

* * *

**AN- All righty. There you have the third chapter of the book. I just watched the Trailer for Desolation of Smaug (had a few fangirl moments) and I was totally inspired to write the chapter. I know the pace may be a bit slow, but it will definitely pick up next chapter, rest assured. We'll also see the fate of our little hobbit in the next chapter. Can I just say that I feel totally bad for Laurel and for Thorin as well, I can sympathize with Thorin somehow and I hope you guys can too to some extent. Anyways, there may not be an update for the next few weeks because I have many exams coming up. So enjoy this chapter! And as always, I would totally appreciate a Review.**

**(P.S. Can I just say how perfect the Quote from Wilde's Poem was for this chapter. Seriously when I was planning this chapter and I read Ballad of Reading Gaoul and I cam across this Quote, I was like 'Serendipity')**

**QOTW: What do you think about the company's reaction to Laurel's capture? Would you have done anything differently, is there anything you would like me to include? **


	28. Between Gallows and Gates

Chapter 4

_"But thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, when in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee."- Sonnet 18, William Shakespeare_

She lay catatonic on the stone floor while her fingers carefully traced the pattern of the cobblestone beneath her. With wide eyes she stared into the nothingness and beneath her breath she muttered the words: "Mist and Shadow, Cloud and Shade. All shall fade, all shall fade." If she only allowed herself to believe, to forget the caustic coldness within her and the feel of the unforgiving stone ground beneath her, she could imagine that she was once more in her warm bed in her old home on the outskirts of Bree and her still-healthy, joyous mother had come in and would sing her the lullaby in her melodic voice while combing through her hair. She could imagine a happier time, when she was still not marked by her bitterness toward her mother and her abandonment of her, she could remember a time when she had no care in the world but if she could finally catch a butterfly the next day, a time when Orcs, Goblins, Trolls were only the villainous figures in her favourite stories. She could remember a time when she didn't have to worry about death and despair and fear and life and... love. She fisted her hand as the thought crossed her head and immediately her eyes closed as if in pain, yet she felt too numb to feel anything.

Love.

Why did she have to fall in love with Thorin Oakenshield? A self-deprecating feeling took possession of her and she slowly shook her head. It was not as if the realization had startled her, surprised her. It was not as if one moment she had just realized that she loved the stubborn dwarf more than she could have ever imagined. She supposed that she had known, that she had subconsciously realized it but only truly become aware of it a few days ago. She supposed that she had known all along. When she had direly admonished him and called him out for what she perceived was his lack of manners. Each time she had refused to bow down to him and she had fiercely stood up to him. Every time she had looked over at him and she could not help but feel fierce respect and admiration to rise within her recognizing what just leader he was despite his embittered nature. Every time she had felt sadness because of his bereaved demeanour and she had recognized the painful weight of responsibility he carried with him, he insisted to hold onto stubbornly. Each time she had dreamt of him and had woken up with a gnawing sense of longing within her. Each time she had been so pained to realize his disapproval of her when she was sure that it was clearly, blindingly clear that she loved him. That she loved him despite what he had done to her, that he had abandoned her. It seemed that she was destined to love individuals that forsake her, her mother, him.

Azog had realized it. She recalled her session with the Pale Orc. She had been brought to him, she did not know how long ago, because she was constantly kept in darkness and had lost any sense of time. Like she was imprisoned in an eon of night and as much as she longed to escape from it, it would never release her. She had stood with her head bowed before the Pale Orc, unable to look into the eyes of her captor and see his fiendish delight at her defeat, unable to see the malevolence she knew he carried constantly within him, which was ingrained in him, unable to see his nefarious intentions. He had addressed her in a dark, deep voice that had caused shivers of fear to race up and down her spine and she had to resist the urge to flinch. And she had felt such shame at her fear, at her lack of spirit that she had pursed her lips and resisted the urge to cry out in her frustration. He had addressed her and had talked to her about her capture. He had tried to sound sympathetic and she had looked up incredulously at him to see him sat on his throne, she supposed the spiky iron seat was supposed to be, to see him with a mock look of sympathy on his face. It had tortured his face and had made it even more hideous and grieved she had realized that these creatures- that Orcs were not meant to known such tender, compassionate feelings. He had sounded like a dying horse to her as he had expressed his regret at the necessity of her imprisonment. She had looked away from him with her eyes narrowed and her nose scrunched in cold rage for his lying at her. She had looked back at him and with a hollow voice she barely recognized as her own, she bid him to stop lying to her and stop his game, to simply tell her what he wanted with her. For an insufficiently long second, Azog had looked at her and remained still perhaps in surprise at her statement, but then he had continued and he had started to talk of her feelings for the dwarven king. The feelings she had carried within her during her imprisonment, the feelings which she could scarcely grasp herself yet, the feelings which pained her because she realized that he would never reciprocate them.

She had looked away as the Pale Orc had been stating out loud everything she had felt during her time in his dungeon. She had heard him rise and come toward her and she had bunched her shoulders and made herself smaller dreading the increasing proximity between her and the Pale Orc. She had flinched when he had grabbed her shin in a gesture that to him had seemed comforting, but which had caused her to grit her teeth in disgust and he had looked down at her with nefarious delight in his eyes that she knew he was trying to suppress and he cooed at her and stated warmly in an algid voice: "Thorin Oakenshield does not deserve your loyalty, my dear." She had closed her eyes at the endearment, feeling discomfort because it had felt wrong to hear those words stated in his raspy voice. He had proceeded to tell her of Thorin and his misdeeds, his cowardice on the battle field, his cruel nature and his fierce avarice. And then he had told her something that had sent a pang through her heart: "You never meant anything to him. Anything he might've told you, I urge to not believe his lies. He loved a young dwarven princess he had been betrothed to before Smaug took Erebor. Any other woman he has been with since has only been a whore for him, he has no other interests other than his gold and his power." She had looked down, fighting against his tight grip, unwilling to show him that his words had indeed affected her. But he had raised her chin once more and his thumb had stroked across her cheek and caused her to become nauseous, as he wiped away a tear that she had not even felt falling. "Oh my dear, he does not deserve your loyalty. He doesn't treasure it like some would, like I would. I urge to reconsider who will continue to hold it." The endearment once again felt wrong to her stated by his voice and unbidden an image of Gandalf with a warm smile on his weathered face and his wooden pipe grasped in his head came to her mind. The meddlesome wizard, whom she at times grew chagrined at for his interference, but whom she was immensely fond of for his valance and whom had always treated her with kindness and warmth. It is him who called her my dear, any other felt wrong. Through her haze of reflection, as she recalled his encouragement of her and the many times she had sat beside her cousin and him while they smoked their late afternoon pipes, she heard Azog state: "Loyalty, honour and a willing heart. Who could ask for more?" Her heart started to pound in her chest, when she recalled the words she had overhead that night of the council in Bag End. Those words she had heard Thorin Oakenshield state to his scribe, the words he had used to describe his company. The words that had first led her to believe that perhaps he wasn't as terrible and unendurable a person as she had first thought. She recalled the dwarves of Erebor, the ones who had forsaken her after they had discovered of her heritage. The ones who sang and danced. Bofur with his merry stories and enchanting ballads sung in that deeply accented voice of his, his friendship with Bilbo, his clear regret at having mistreated her. Bifur with his quiet reticence and his loyal companionship, him coming to her and being the dearest friend even when it would cause such resentment toward him on part of the other dwarves. Kili and Fili, with the jesting joyous spirits, whom had insisted to befriend her, their valance despite their young age, them whispering warm apologies in her ears and holding onto her tightly after having escaped from the misty mountain almost as if they were afraid that if they were to let her go she would disappear. And Bilbo, her cousin, her companion, her dearest friend who did not know how much valance, how much good there was within him.

At recalling those memories of her friends she felt warmth grow within her and her lips quirked up into a semblance of a smile. "Who does your loyalty lie with, my dear?" She heard Azog ask once more and she realized that he was propositioning her, that he was offering her an alliance with him and a way to escape this hell. But at what price? At the price of betraying all her loved ones. At the price of betraying the ever faithful Bifur, the jovial Bofur. At betraying Fili and Kili, whom she knew were immensely fond of her. At the price of betraying Bilbo the one she had sworn to remain loyal to who would always hold her deepest regard, at the price of betraying the company of dwarves whom she had grown to respect at seeing their loyalty their valance their courage toward one another. At the price of betraying Gandalf, who always believed in her. At the price of betraying _him. _At the price of betraying herself for she knew that for as long as she lived she would never forgive herself for her treachery. She looked up at him and felt her old spirit rise within her and she stated with a confidence she knew not where it came from: "I am sorry to disappoint you Azog. But my loyalty lies neither with your needs nor Thorin Oakenshield's quest. It is not a bird you can ensnare, for my loyalty lies with myself." She had smirked up at him triumphantly, as she had seen his mask of sympathy fall, almost taunting him with her answer. She saw his eyes darken, yet she did not see the blow coming. The blow that was so strong that she felt he had almost broken her jaw and a little more and he would've surely broken her neck. She fell to the ground and heard him spit something in Orcish and she was hauled off from his study and brought back to her dungeon.

The stinging of her cheek had still not subsided, yet neither had her fierceness. She lay catatonic on the floor and she knew she needed to get out. Perhaps the thought of returning to the company was somewhat utopian. But she needed to get out. She had to at least try. She owed it to Bilbo, she owed it to herself. She needed to get out because she could not allow her spirit to fade once more like it had before, because her loyalty was not the only thing that was free like a bird. She was also. She was a fierce, fiery creature. The adventure had revealed that to her, she knew she could never return to Hobbiton and go back to her usual routine of passiveness. This quest... _he _had awakened something within her, and this blissful fire would never go out for as long as she lived. She would never allow it to.

She sat up and looked at the lone Orc that was stationed before her cell and who was pacing the corridor during his watch. He was a gruesome figure with his sharp jaws and razor like claws of hands, his skin black as midnight and his eyes two white pupils amidst this sea of darkness. He was the one who had carried her back to the cell after her confrontation with Azog and she had seen him periodically look at her hungrily. Like he wanted to eat her. She knew he wanted to. She loosened her braid and allowed her hair that was caked with dirt and blood at the tips to cascade down her back and she felt the cold, hard metal of her hairpin encased in her warm palm. She had thought of this plan for a good time. She had thought about it and she was painfully aware of all that could go wrong, but she had always been impulsive and foolhardy, two characteristics that were only strengthened due to the fact that she was obstinate to get out of here. She looked down and gathering all her courage she cried out: "You!" The Orc's pacing ceased and he turned his head to look at her. She immediately saw the glint of hunger in his tiny black pupils that were like specks of dust in his large white eyes, as he looked at her and her hair that was like a red mane around her head. He stepped closer to the bars of the cage and she should have felt intimidated at the predatory move, but it only spurned her as she spat: "You are a coward. I can see how you hunger for my flesh, to devour me like you did with that little pathetic elf." She resisted the urge to flinch as she perceived how caustic her hollow voice had become, as she spat those terrible words about the poor elf. She smirked at him as she saw him bristle at her offence. "You are pathetic, a coward. What Orc are you to allow the orders of anyone to stop you from getting what you want? To be subservient to anyone, when it is in your nature to be vicious. You are an abomination."

The Orc had grown increasingly flustered at each insult she had flung at him until he had seemingly had enough at her words and had let a high-pitched shriek, hit his sword against the prison bars in frustration and he had opened the door to her cell and come storming toward her. She had not allowed fear to paralyse her as she saw the Orc's fierce wrath at her and his intent to hurt her, her fingers had tightened against the metal of her hairpin and in reassurance she had passed her thumb over the sharp edge of the contraption. He had packed her by the collar and shook her a little. As he bared his teeth and prepared to tear her to pieces, her hand shoot out and she stabbed the vicious Orc with her sharp metal hairpin in his eyes. She felt a sticky substance coat her hand, his grip vanished and he flinched away from her, as he let out a high-pitched, pained scream and clutched at his eyes, blind to anything but his pain. She wasted no time and flew out of her cell.

The same burning inferno that she had experienced when she had tried to save Kili during the Warg chase took a hold of her, as she ascended the stairs out of the dungeons and ran through the dark corridors of Azog's fortress. She ran without direction, steadily avoiding any Orc and the path that had been used to carry her in, as she knew that at that exit a mass of Orcs awaited her. She ran and she ran in inexhaustible fury and the corridors blurred around her into a homogeneous picture. She did not stop to consider that perhaps the entrance she had been carried into could have been the only one, if she allowed herself to think that she would break down crying for sure and she could not allow herself any other thought than to find another escape.

She did not know for how long she ran, rounding corridors and crouching lowly whenever she saw an Orc approaching her, before she perceived the sound of clamour and she looked back to the end of the long corridor that she had been running through to see a small congregation of five furious Orcs running after her, probably alarmed by their injured kin. Her eyes widened and her pace quickened and as she rounded the next corner, she saw in the distance a strip of white light. It was her escape, her exit and hope only quickened her step and she let out a sobbing laugh of relief.

As she ran out of the dark fortress and into freedom, she felt the wind hit her and the fresh air enter her lungs and as she felt the sun shine on her skin she almost fell to her knees in gratitude and relief, but she kept on running because she was still painfully aware of her hunters. She ran while feeling intense relief and for the first time truly believing that she would be able to save herself, that there was still hope, that she could go back to them. She allowed a smile to grace her features at that thought, at the thought of once more feeling Bilbo's warm embrace, to hear one more of Bofur's ballads, to sit for a few seconds longer at Bifur's side enjoying his quiet company, to once more look into his grey-blue eyes.

Yet her hope was cut excruciatingly short when she was forced to a stop, because she had arrived at a cliff and she fought to keep her balance, as she had almost ran off the edge. She looked down disbelievingly and felt her feet half on the ground and half ghosting over the edge of the void. Little pebbles dislodge themselves beneath her feet and were devoured by the vast nothingness. The blood rushed in her ears and she felt cold dread pack her at the sight and the realization that accompanied it. There was no escape for her, not here. The fortress was on a tall elevation and the only bridge that connected it to the rest of Middle Earth was on the other side with thousands of Orcs guarding it. The sound of the blood stream receded from her ears and she heard the clamour of her captors, as they advanced. Looking down into the cruel, mocking abyss she could not help but let out a heart-broken sob. It was over! She could not escape, the Orcs were chasing her, the abyss was before her and she could not escape. She turned her back on the cruel abyss and looked at the furious, vicious faces of the Orcs as their proximity to her increased. She would have to go back and she did not even want to think of what would happen to her as a consequence of her escape attempt. She would have to go back and she would surely go mad, she was only tethering on the edge of it, a few seconds longer in that hell would surely put her over the edge. She couldn't go back.

She looked down as the realization of what she could do hit her. It grieved her that this was the only way, because it meant that she would forever be separated from those she loved that had gone before her. Because it meant that she would have to give up any hope of one day re encountering those she loved who were not yet gone. She would forever be separated from her parents, Aunt Bella, from Bilbo. But she knew that she must do it. That she must be selfish at least once. She stepped back closer toward the edge and then she lay back and let herself fall. The wind rushed by her, as she fell. She had decided to die free.

* * *

He roamed the landscape and walked along the stream in his bear form. He had only just talked to the great eagles and he was unable to stop the smile of amusement to twist his features. He knew that the eagles had been startled at the smile softening his rigid features, them only being used to his solemn nature. But he had been unable to stop himself. That wizard, Gandalf, whom he had thought was surely balmy had indeed told him the truth. The tale that had prompted Beorn to extend his hospitality toward the company of dwarves was indeed true. He shook his head slightly, to find out that such a fantastical story did indeed happen had definitely lightened his mood and caused his respect for Thorin Oakenshield, the rightful king under the mountain to grow, despite his unease concerning the dwarves' embittered and solemn mood.

He looked out over the landscape and his eye was caught by a bright shade of red further ahead at the bank of the stream. Intrigued, Beorn moved toward it and as he came closer he could make out that it was a woman who was lying motionless washed up at the back of the stream. Beorn nudged her tenderly with his nose, searching for any life signs, because the woman was lying unnaturally still. He turned her over and looked down and immediately he furrowed his brows at the sight that met him.

She was very young. He guessed that she had just reached womanhood not too long ago and he looked down grieved at her, while continuing to study her features. She was tiny, smaller even than Master Baggins, the hobbit of the company. She would have been beautiful, Beorn remarked with wonder. He could make out the delicacy of her features and he knew that she would have been startlingly lovely had it not been for her deathly pallor, her split lip and the angry bruise that marred her cheek. He gave a low grunt and once more nudged her with his nose, attempting to wake her. But she continued to lie still.

He was just about to turn and leave, grieved at the girl's seeming death. When he heard a low moan and he looked back to see her chest rising and falling slightly, sporadically. Apparently his sense of compassion and hospitality had been awakened by the arrival of the dwarves, because he would have never done what he decided to do now. He tenderly grasped her by the collar of her drenched waistcoat and put her on his back, before returning to his home. He was sure his wife would agree to care for the injured girl.

Later he joined the company of Thorin Oakenshield during their night-time meal in his great hall, after having left his wife caring for the young woman in the last guest room available in his hall. He joined the dining dwarves boisterously, while jovially calling out to the hobbit, who was indulging in the honey treat served in his home: "Little Bunny getting fat on bread and honey." He allowed a small smile to grace his features as the rest of the dwarves teased the little, flustered hobbit and he sat down beside Gandalf. He looked at the weathered wizard and said: "It is much more rewarding if you are aware that the tale you rewarded your visitors for did indeed occur." The wizard smiled politely and inclined his head and Beorn proceeded to tell the assembled what the great eagles had told him.

He was just about to drink his first sip of the ale after a long and arduous day, when his wife entered the hall. He put down his jug, as she sat beside him and looked at him with worried eyes and he asked silently: "How is she?" "She rests, not peacefully but she rests." His wife said and lowered her head so that her wheat blonde hair fell around her face. He nodded his head, slightly pacified especially after having first thought that she was dead. He looked away from his wife to see the wizard's questioning and curious glance and he decided to share his tale with his new companions: "I found the most peculiar creature today." "Master Beorn?" Gandalf stated in his smoky voice and prompted him to elaborate. He acquiesced and proceeded to tell the wizard, the hobbit and the dwarves of the young woman he had found today washed up on the shore of the stream. He told them of how he had first thought her dead, of how he had discovered she was alive and had brought her to his hall to tend to her injuries. "She would have surely been beautiful had it not been for her injuries with those delicate features and that sea of red hair." his wife added thoughtfully and he nodded his head in acquiescence.

He looked up to be met with the sight of the company's incredulous gazes and he immediately grew confused at that. He grew even more so, when the leader of the company rose and hurriedly left the hall, moving in the direction of the woman's room. For a few seconds, silence blanketed them before a great clamour arose and the rest of the company followed their leader's example. Beorn rose and with his long legs he went after Thorin Oakenshield, muttering under his breath: "What in the world...?" He moved toward the girl's room, followed by the company of Thorin Oakenshield and saw that the door was wide open. He was just about to reprimand the dwarven king for disturbing the resting girl, when he stopped in his track. He felt an innate sense of discomfort as he glanced the brooding dwarven king's incredulous gaze. He had become used to the dwarf's bitter, resentful, indifferent gaze, but as the dark-haired dwarf looked at the form of the resting girl on the bed with her resting face turned towards them and her red curls like a pillow beneath her pale skin, Beorn could categorize Thorin Oakenshield's expression as anything but cold and indifferent and at seeing the emotion in the dwarf's eyes, Beorn felt discomfort. It grew even more when he saw Thorin's rigid, superior posture slump in relief when the girl's eyes fluttered open, revealing vibrantly blue eyes. Her eyes fell on the dwarven king and immediately, perhaps instinctively they softened. He felt Master Baggins start beside him, seeming to move but he held out his hand to stop the little hobbit. He looked down at the burglar when he felt his puzzled and slightly impatient gaze on him and he shook his head amiably and said: "Come on, little bunny. Give them a moment." He proceeded to close the door behind him just as he watched Thorin move towards the woman who had once more gone to sleep.

* * *

**So yay, Laurel got out and she's back now. I wonder what will happen next. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and once more I would like to thank anyone who has been reviewing and following this story. This chapter is especially dedicated to Lalaithiel, who guessed Beorn's involvement. When I read her comment I was like 'You smart cookie, you!' **

**QOTW: Did you enjoy Laurel's escape and what do you think will happen now? What do you want to happen now between her and Thorin, her and Bilbo, her and Fili and Kili? **


	29. Your eyes look like coming home

Chapter 5

_"And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me." -Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe_

Her eyes opened gingerly and with heavy lids she looked at the flickering flame of the candle beside her. She furrowed her brow and shuffled her shoulders trying to find comfort in the soft covers beneath her. Her head pounded and she soon had to let go off her expression, because it tortured her face. Her eyes averted themselves from the dancing flame and she looked up at the high wooden ceiling above her.

She was confused.

The last thing she could remember was letting herself fall off the cliff. The last thing she could recall was making that decision. Was letting go and then the air rushing by her and the sensation of utter nothingness beneath her back, beneath her feet, beneath her everything. The feeling of blissful liberation after that period of horror she experienced in the Orcs' fortress. She was supposed to be dead. That had been the price for her freedom. She had paid for her escape from Azog's clutches with her life and at the thought of the utter fear and torment she had experienced in his dungeon, she had thought that it had been a small price to pay for she could not bear to be imprisoned, to be at his mercy. She had died and she had been content to go as long as it had meant that she could have died free and true to herself.

But she was confused.

It did not feel as if she was dead. She felt pain and discomfort from the injuries she felt on her face. She felt the heaviness of her form weighing her down. She had expected that as soon as she had died, she would have left her earthly form and perhaps, if she was lucky, she would have flown to the stars. Yet that had not happened. Because she still felt weighed down to the ground. She felt everything around her, the warmth of the soft covers over her form, the warmth of the candle beside her cheek, the smell of musk and herbs and the sound of her quiet but steady breathing. She had expected that as soon as she had died she would not have felt anything any more. She could feel her heart beat in her chest. She was supposed to be dead, but it felt as if to her as if she was painfully, blissfully alive.

And that confused her.

How could she have ever survived that fall from the cliff? As she had fallen, it had been as if it was never ending, as if the abyss she had jumped into was infinite. Surely, as soon as she had impacted with something, with anything the fall would have killed her, but she was still alive and that confused her greatly. She could not recall how she had arrived where she was now. She did not know where she was. She could not recall anything after having lost consciousness during her fall. Perhaps she should have worried. She should have worried that she was in an unkown known location and that she had somehow been brought here without her recollection. Perhaps she should have worried over who exactly had dressed her wounds and their intent. But she could not. Because she was grateful. She was grateful that someone had taken pity on her and had effectively saved her. She was grateful that someone had been compassionate enough. And she was too tired and confused to care for the fact that there may have been hidden intentions behind the kind gesture shown to her. She was too tired to manage any suspicion toward her saviour.

Her right ear twitched as she perceived the low sound of a door opening to her right and in response she turned her head and was met with the sight of a woman entering her room. She watched the woman as she gingerly closed the door behind her, intent on not making sounds too loud and the woman the turning towards her. She smiled as she saw Laurel conscious and awake and quickly made her way towards her. Laurel studied the woman. She was tall, perhaps even taller than Gandalf who had been one of the tallest individuals Laurel ever had the pleasure of knowing. She had hair the colour of the wheat that grew on the fields surrounding Hobbiton during the warm months of the year. And as she approached, Laurel looked into her kind brown eyes and immediately her posture relaxed and the young girl let go off a tension she had not realized she was holding. Her wariness and suspicion towards the woman were dispelled as Laurel looked into her warm and concerned eyes that did not hold a hint of malevolence and as the woman's features softened and the wrinkles on her face became more pronounced as she smiled warmly down at the half-elf, Laurel could not help but smile back at her, even if it hurt her face.

The woman sat down beside her and her warm hands touched Laurel's as she looked down at the girl and with a soft voice stated: "You're awake." Laurel closed her eyes and nodded her head carefully afraid that any sudden movement would cause her to cry out in pain as despite the odd comfort she felt in the woman's presence, she could still distinctly feel the painful pounding in her head. She felt the woman taking off the bindings on her wounds and she tensed greatly and her eyes snapped open. Unwillingly yet instinctively she flinched away and looked down warily at the woman. In response to her, the woman looked up and with a sad smile she said: "No need to be afraid. I am only changing the bindings." Laurel hesitated a few moments, an irrational fear packing her considering the woman's seemingly gentle spirit, yet the young girl still felt discomfort at someone looking over the wounds that Azog and her time in the dungeons had inflicted on her. Then, grudgingly, her posture softened and she allowed the woman to look at her wounds, but kept her eyes trained on her for the duration of the procedure. Warm silence enveloped them, yet Laurel soon broke it as she questioned in a cracking voice, that startled her for it seemed utterly foreign to her: "Where am I?" The woman looked up from dressing the wound on her right forearm and smiled beatifically down at her, before answering: "You're at the halls of Beorn, the skin changer, my husband. It was him who found you washed up at the shore of the river and brought you here." After her explanation, the woman returned her attention to her craft. Still on guard, Laurel asked: "Why?"

She saw the woman's brow furrow momentarily with slight confusion, but then her features softened and without looking up she indulgently stated: "My husband is a good man, even if his altruism is at times hindered by his suspicion towards others." For a few seconds, the woman did not say anything further and Laurel furrowed her brows in fear that she had offended the woman by questioning her husband's intentions. She was about to open her mouth to apologize when the woman stated: "I believe that he was unable to leave you to your fate, which undoubtedly would have been grave if he had left you. I believe that you roused my husband's compassion, my dear." Laurel's features softened and warmth consumed her, despite the fact that she did not even know the woman's name she could not help but feel fond gratitude toward her and her husband who had cared for her. She put her left hand on top of the woman's working ones and whispered, as soon as the woman had looked up at her: "Thank you for your kindness." She smiled warmly in response to the woman's nod and smile.

In a soft voice the two women conversed, as Beorn's wife tended to Laurel's wounds. Soon Laurel discovered that the woman before her was named Arien and that her ancestors had the ability to change into the form of an animal at their wish. An ability that she had inherited, as she had told Laurel and which had been proven to her when the woman before her had turned into a fox with a lustrous red coat and brown eyes that were intelligent and shone with mischief at the incredulity on Laurel's face at her transformation. Laurel had in turn told Arien her name and that she was a half-elf, half-hobbit that lived in the Shire. "You're a far way from home then, little hobbit," Arien had stated and squeezed Laurel's hand and Laurel had smiled fondly at the blonde woman before her.

"You have created quite the commotion, my dear." Arien had stated a little later when both women had been acquainted and they had fallen into comfortable silence having told each other all they had wanted or been comfortable to tell the other, with Laurel actively concealing the reason of her distance from the Shire after Arien had questioned her about it. Laurel cocked her head inquisitively at the woman's words and furrowed her brow, silently questioning the warm skin-changer before her. In response Arien smiled warmly and stated: "The company which arrived with Gandalf the Grey have been quite interested in how you fared ever since discovering that Beorn had found you."

She felt her breath escaping her lungs quickly and she looked at the woman incredulously. For a moment, Laurel was submerged in utter disbelief that was so great that she felt numb, that she felt nothing. But then warmth started to rise in her chest and her breath quickened at the euphoric and elating sensation at her discovery that she had found them, that she had found her way back to the company, to Bilbo. Her lips twisted into a small smile and she whispered: "They're here." At the thought of being so close to her cousin, to her best friend, at the thought of having been reunited with him especially after fearing that she would never come to see Bilbo Baggins ever again she let out a sobbing chuckle and shook her head. She had found him. She thought about Fili and Kili, who had been so honest in their apologies after escaping from the Misty Mountains, who had been intent to befriend her so early on, she was reminded of their laughter and their jovial spirit. She was reminded of Bifur and his loyal and steady companionship and of Bofur and his kindness and friendship towards her cousin. Suddenly, the need to see them again was so great that she made to rise only to have Arien put a placating hand on her shoulder and cause her to settle back into bed. "I know you wish to see them again, my dear," Arien said in soft and indulgent whisper "But you mustn't overexert yourself." At the sight of Laurel's dissatisfied expression, Arien said: "Do you wish for me to call for anyone of them?" Laurel nodded her head and appeased she said: "Yes, the hobbit, my cousin." Arien nodded her head and left the room and Laurel settled back awaiting her cousin's arrival.

* * *

It was late afternoon and the sun was glowing red and setting on the horizon and the moon would soon take its place, when he joined Thorin Oakenshield on the porch in front of his house. The dwarven leader showed no acknowledgement to his arrival and they both sat in heavy silence at the wooden bench overlooking his gardens. The dwarven king was smoking a late afternoon pipe and was looking fixedly and reflectively off into the distance and Beorn allowed the silence to continue to reign over them. He had been chagrined to discover that the girl, Laurel as his wife had told him, he had found washed up at the shore of the river had been part of Thorin Oakenshield's company. That she had presumably been captured by the Pale Orc, he had been acrimonious that they had allowed a girl that looked as fragile and breakable as her to go on the quest, but most of all he had been angered at the company's inability to care for one of their own. But soon his anger had subsided when he had perceived the care the company held toward the girl. Until this morning when she had woken up, the company and the wizard had been agitated and flustered over her well-being, silently resenting Beorn and his wife because they had prohibited them from entering the room she was located in. His chagrin at them had subsided when he had seen the relief clearly written over their faces when Arien had informed them that Laurel had woken and that she was faring well.

These men cared for the young woman, Beorn could clearly see that. The mute one with the axe embedded in his skull, who had looked so joyed when Arien had told them earlier today that the girl was feeling better. The nephews of Thorin Oakenshield, who had immediately jumped up in enthusiasm at seeing the girl and whose faces had fallen in disappointment when Arien informed them that Laurel had requested the hobbit. Even the battle-hardened reticent Master Dwalin who had looked relieved at the girl's recovery. He looked to the side at Thorin Oakenshield and saw that the dwarven king's eyes had softened and that he was observing something intently in the distance. Beorn followed the king's line of sight and was met with the image of Miss Laurel walking lethargically in his gardens with Master Baggins, who supported her frail tiny form with a protective arm slung around her waist.

"Master Baggins' spirit has definitely been raised since the arrival of Miss Laurel." Beorn stated contemplatively and tore his eyes off the two friends to look at Master Oakenshield. He saw the reticent dwarf nod his head slightly and he said in his deep voice that was made even more raspy from inhaling the pipe smoke: "I imagine he would be. He is incredibly fond of her." All the while, Thorin Oakenshield did not take his eyes off the young woman and Beorn stated knowingly, seeing his wistful gaze: "As are you."

For a few seconds, the leader of the company did not answer and Beorn was most assured that the proud dwarf would not answer to his claim, perhaps even deny that which Beorn could see so clearly. Beorn was just about to take his leave and depart when he heard Thorin confess whisperingly, almost as if to himself: "She surprises me." Beorn looked at the dwarven king to see that he was still studying the girl who was now sat beneath the shade of one of his apple trees. He saw the dwarven king look away when she leaned her head on her cousin's chest and close her eyes, smiling serenely. "Her gentility, her kindness... it surprises me." He saw Thorin shake his head slightly. "I find it... lovely. I find her lovely."

Beorn lowered his gaze, now ashamed that he had intruded on the dwarf's feelings. He knew that no answer to the dwarven king's confession was needed, so he rose and departed, leaving the reticent Thorin Oakenshield behind.

* * *

He smiled down fondly at the crown of her head as his fingers brushed through her red curls. For the last few days, ever since that damned night at the cliff, he had never expected to feel joy again. How could he? When his greatest, best companion was seemingly lost, when he had no hope to find her again, when he was haunted by the thought of what might have occurred to her. He had been feeling such guilt, guilt that had allowed her to go on this quest, that despite the fact that he was a careful Baggins he had not thought through all that could occur to her, guilt that he had allowed her to be captured, that he had not remained at her side faithfully as he should've done, as he wanted to, guilt that he had forsaken her and broken the promise that he had given his mother and his best friend.

Yet he felt such elating, overwhelming joy at the moment. Because she was back in his arms, because he could feel the warmth of her body and her tiny hands trained on his chest, because he could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his side, because he had walked into her room earlier that day and she had smiled at him and in her eyes there had been a feeling of anticipation, because she had outstretched her hand to his. He felt joy because he had taken her hand and she had squeezed it, just like she had always done to comfort him and to assure him that she was at his side, that she would support him. Because the one person he cared about, the one he loved above all else had been returned to him and with her a feeling of triumph, of invincibility had taken a hold of him.

"I missed you, Bilbo." He heard her whisper and his smile brightened and he laid his cheek on the crown of her head and he felt comforted. He felt comforted by the feel of her hair against his skin, by the smell of sweet pea that he had come to associate with her, he felt comforted by her sweet voice which he had grievingly thought he would only hear in his dreams, when she'd come to haunt him with her absence and with the bitter happy memories of their time together. "Oh, Rel." Bilbo whispered and tightened his arms around her. "I thought I lost you." He felt her shift beside him and he raised his head and she looked up at him and smiled mischievously up at him and whispered: "I'm afraid you won't get rid of me that easily, Bilbo. I am incredibly stubborn about the things I care for." He chuckled in response to her words.

Suddenly, his eyes were drawn away from her and towards Beorn's house and in the front porch he could make out the form of Thorin Oakenshield, who was studying the interaction between him and Laurel. The dwarf lowered his eyes when he saw that the attention of the two hobbits had been deflected to him and swiftly moved off into the skin changer's halls. He heard his cousin sigh in exasperation and he looked to his side at her to see her shaking her lowered head. She rose quickly and said: "I believe it is time to go back inside. It shall be night time soon and I do not believe that Arien will be too please if I am out at night." He rose and quickly patted of his clothing and as his hands moved over his waist coat, his fingers ghosted over the hardness of the ring. He had told Laurel where he had been during their time in the Misty Mountains when she had questioned his absence. He had told her about his fall deeper into the heart of the mountain. He had told her about Gollum and about his challenge with riddles. He had told her everything, down the detail of the foul and putrid air in his cave and the crazed look in the creature's eyes, yet he hadn't told her about the ring. About the mystical object that had left him enthralled and which's significance eluded him. Yet he knew that he had to hold onto it, that it was vital for him to. Perhaps, Laurel would know more about the ring. She was after all quite clever. Perhaps she would know once he showed it to her.

"I found something in the Gollum's cave, Rel." He said as they were walking back towards Beorn's home. His cousin stopped in her tracks and with her arms slung around her slender form and her forehead crinkled in confusion, she looked questioningly at him. He was just about to take out the ring and show it to her, yet he was petrified when his skin came in contact with the cool metal of the ring. A snarling voice hissed in his mind's inner ear caustic, venomous words _'No, you mustn't tell her. You mustn't tell anyone. You are the Bearer, Baggins and that gives you all the power. No, I am yours Baggins. She will only take me from you. You can not trust her, you can not trust her, she only seeks to take everything from you. No, No, NO!' _

Bilbo's jaw dropped as he heard the poisonous words and he allowed them to consume him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bilbo, the young fauntling who had immediately befriended Laurel Took and who had trusted her at first sight screamed at him for his ignorance, for considering these caustic words for even a moment. Yet the ring consumed him momentarily and he knew that he could not bear to part from it, that the possibility of being separated from it for even a moment pained him. He couldn't allow anyone to take the ring from him, not when he hadn't understood it yet.

"What did you find, Bilbo?" He saw Laurel look at him inquisitively with her head cocked. He saw her eyes flicker to his hand at the pocket of his waistcoat and immediately he bristled with indignation at her interest in the ring and felt utter hostility. He quickly buried the ring back into the safety of his pocket and said: "My courage." He saw Laurel's lips part and she searched his face. He wondered if he only imagined the pained and offended look that flashed in her eyes, before she looked down and away from him with her brow furrowed and her lips pursed. They stood at the clearing for a few long seconds before she nodded her head grudgingly and said coldly: "Good. You will most certainly need it." Then she turned from him and departed in the direction of the wooden house. He soon followed.

* * *

**Summary: Laurel waking up, Laurel talking to Arien, Thorin confessing to Beorn, Beorn Feeling uncomfortable, and Bilbo being consummed by the ring. **

**I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. As you can already see the character Dynamics are going to Change quite a bit. Bilbo is going to get influenced greatly by that nasty ring and Laurel will obviously be affected by her time in Azog's dungeons. You'll just have to wait and see how everything is going to play out. **

**Can I just say how adorable I found Thorin's confession to Beorn. I was incredibly nervous about writing it, fearing to make him OOC, but I Kind of indulged in this by justifying it with the fact that he obviously felt something really strong for her since the night of the council in Bag End and that now that she has come back he finally realises her importance and all he could have lost without her. But I want to know what you guys think consequently: **

**QOTW: Do you think that Thorin's Feelings about Laurel are authentic and realistic? Do you think that it was too quick, do you think that it is too OOC? How would you like to see their relationship Play out? **


	30. The stars have all been blown out

Chapter 6

"_This have I known always: Love is no more than the wide blossom which the wind assails, than the great tide that treads the shifting shore, strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales: Pity me that the heart is slow to learn when the swift mind beholds at every turn."- Sonnet 29, Edna St. Vincent Millay_

She was walking on Beorn's grounds and exploring his vast lavish gardens. After a few days of rest, comfort and hearty food, her strength had been restored and she could now take longer walks by herself without needing the assistance of Bilbo or of anyone else and while she did miss her and Bilbo's fond conversations, or Fili and Kili's jovial talk and their fascinating and thorough description of dwarven lifestyle and customs, or perhaps Bifur's reticent yet steady company as he fatherly guided her through the clearing and along the meadow before the wooden hut of the skin-changer Beorn. She even at times missed Arien's motherly warmth and comfort during her walks as the woman would walk beside her and converse with her, yet at the same time take great concern over her health. Yet she felt immensely grateful that she was no longer dependant on anyone to take a walk or do something, she was immensely grateful for the solitude she now encountered herself in.

Perhaps that should have startled her. Because never before in her three decades on Middle Earth had she ever taken such comfort from being alone. Quite contrary, solitude had always frightened her after she had experienced it slightly during her early youth when her mother had fallen ill with grief. Ever since that experience, she had been almost greedy with companionship and the need to have someone by her side and fortunately she had found Bilbo.

She sighed sadly as she thought about her cousin. He had welcomed her in the same loving manner she had always known of him, he'd had the same brotherly concern she had grown so fond of during their friendship and he'd treated her with the same care and fondness he'd always held towards her. The same tenderness he'd held when she'd first set foot in Bag End and he'd grasped her hand and proudly shown her his map and without knowing Laurel had already loved her cousin from that moment on. From the moment he'd puffed his chest and proudly presented her with his newly-drawn map of the Shire, which had been a remarkably accurate coal-piece, she'd loved Bilbo.

Perhaps if she was not so perceptive. Perhaps if she did not know Bilbo so thoroughly she would have not recognized it. Perhaps she would not have perceived the almost ephemeral distance between them, Bilbo's distance from her and his slight heed toward her that had pained her even more than the blow she had received from Azog on the day of her escape. But she did, she realized it and while she wished that she could remain blissfully ignorant of the increasing superficiality of Bilbo's affections toward her, of the growing gap between them.

Something had happened in the Misty Mountains. Something had happened in Gollum's cave. Something Bilbo had not told her about. Something that he'd concealed to her. Something that had invoked a secrecy within him that had caused him for the first time in twenty year to not tell her something. And she rued whatever had caused this change within her friend. Though she could not judge him, she could not resent Bilbo for his change. Not when she was painfully aware of her own shift. Not when she knew that her time in Azog's dungeons had marked her and had tampered with her. Not when she realized that it was not only her cousin who had become withdrawn and apprehensive. And she resented herself for that, for the change she had gone through.

She now preferred solitude to companionship for she felt unburdened walking through Beorn's grounds lonesomely, while in the company of others, however amiable they had been, she had always felt on-guard and tense. She did at times dream and remember her time in the Orcs' dungeons and while these dreams did cause her fear, it was more resigned, less panicked and frantic because she knew that she had gotten out but that she would never forget all that occurred to her in Azog's fortress.

Laurel walked along the flower hedges, which carried a few ripe blossoms which appeared periodically and she allowed he fingers to ghost over them, as she wandered along the hedges. She felt the cold, autumn morning wind blow on her naked nape from where she had gathered her wild curls in a neat bun and in response to the cold, she drew the green shawl that Arien had borrowed her tighter around her form in an attempt to warm herself. She felt the brown skirt of her dress billow around her legs and she was thankful that she did not have to wear her adventurer clothing and that Arien had still kept some of her childhood clothing and had borrowed it to her for as long as she mended Laurel's clothes.

The garden she was walking through was beautiful and lush and dense with growth and for the first moment, as she looked at the trees which were turning from green to red and yellow gradually, she realized that autumn was approaching them and soon another year would die and be reborn. The air around her smelt of warmth and of rain and of decaying leaves and of wet earth and it soothed Laurel in the same manner that the strong, almost overwhelming scent of blossoms in summer and spring always had. She walked through the incarnation of autumn and she praised her solitude, her only company the ageing leaves. Then suddenly she arrived at a hedge that was packed, overflowing with the whitest, purest roses she had ever seen and she stopped in her track to study the white blossoms with wonder. Her fingers reached out and tenderly caressed the petals and she lowered her head to capture the demure scent emitted from the flower. She smiled sadly as she focussed on the rose, while allowing her thoughts to drift to the company.

They had all welcomed her warmly, even the dwarves which had mistreated her the most due to their discovery of her heritage and whom Laurel had never expected to treat her with a single sign of civility. Yet Dwalin had proven her wrong when at dinnertime he had put his hand on her shoulders in a warm gesture and told her that she was welcome back. She had smiled tightly at Dwalin, still unable to forget his mistreatment of her, their mistreatment of her. Yet as the days had passed and she had truly seen their remorse and then as resentful as she had been, she had been unable to not forgive them. Though grudging she had approached Balin last night and had sat beside him and the elder dwarf had smiled at her and she had bid him to tell her about dwarven feasts and he had indulged her. She forgiven them. How could she not, when they were the epitome of her childhood heroes? When she saw their loyalty and their courage so clearly? When she felt their yearning for their home? When they had earned her loyalty to such an extent that she had been willing to remain imprisoned in Azog's clutches in favour of betraying them? How could she have resented them when they welcomed her back so fondly and she had felt the warmth of their sorrow over how they had treated and when she finally realized that they recognized her beyond the hobbit and elf she was and they truly saw her.

Yet the one man that she had wanted to... to recognize had ignored her. Thorin Oakenshield had disregarded her just as he had done before her capture, just like he always had done and she realized that her absence or presence had not made any impact on him, that her capture by Azog had not phased in the slightest. That he had not cared and that while poisonous, Azog's words in that regard had been painfully accurate. She dropped her head and shook it in self-deprecation, pursing her lips. The anger she felt at Thorin Oakenshield could not compare with the outrage she felt at herself. Her resentment at herself for still caring for Thorin Oakenshield, for still feeling grieved that he did not recognize her efforts, that he did not recognize her. She felt self-deprecation at the guilt she had felt when Kili had embraced a few days ago and he'd held her for longer and tighter than what would have been appropriate for friends and all throughout the embrace she'd felt observed and she'd looked up when she'd felt the gaze burning into her skin to see Thorin looking at her and his nephew with something akin to anger in his eyes. Yet she'd somehow known that the anger not directed at her specifically, somehow and that had caused guilt within her and she'd hate that. She felt self-hatred course through her at her weakness, at still caring for Thorin's regard, even when she had been determined to forget, when she had decided to forget him because she was loathe to allow herself to suffer over him and his indifference. She had been determined to forget Thorin and her damnable feelings toward him because she did not wish to suffer, because it hurt to love him. And even though she was angry, she still hurt.

Yet there had not been enough time to think about Thorin for she had focused on her recovery and on the kindness that was shown towards her. She had grown fond of Beorn, her gratitude for his saving of her had extended to sincere and honest gratitude. His gruff manners and solemn nature endeared him to her and he had been more than courteous toward her. She remembered when he had asked her how she had escaped from Azog's fortress:

_"Little hobbit, will you ever regal us with the tale of how you escaped from that Orc's fortress." Beorn asked her. It was dinner and Beorn, Arien, Gandalf, the company and her were sat around the table enjoying a meal of bread and honey served by Beorn's animal servants. She had looked up from her conversation with Fili, as both brothers had insisted that they sat beside her closely and she had blinked up at him, startled by his question. She could see that Arien was opening her mouth to reprimand Beorn for the blunt question. Yet before her friend could say anything, Laurel answered: "He asked me for my loyalty in exchange of my freedom." In response, all around her had tensed and some of the members of the company had a look of unease etched on their faces, unable to muster fully fledged suspicion toward the sweet girl yet unable to fully let off their wariness where Azog was concerned. _

_Balin's raspy voice cut through the thick silence and he asked: "What did you say?" She looked down momentarily and then raised her gaze toward the Scribe who was sat beside the reticent leader who was mustering her with a curious yet worried expression. She smiled at them and raised her brow and she stated: "I said yes." All the while she had been studying Thorin and had seen that in response to her words, his eyes had widened and he had looked at her in disbelief. Unable to hide her mirth at his reaction, she had looked away and scoffed lowly amusedly. She had heard the assembleds' nervous chuckling and then had felt Fili nudge her shoulder with his and then request: "Come Rel, tell us the real story." She had looked up at him and shaken her head but the she had acquiesced and stated: "It is not an overly complex story really. My guard had a what would prove to be detrimental appetite for elvish flesh." She had seen Fili's eyes widen and glint angrily and had felt both brothers stiffen beside her as they sat so closely to her. "He feasted on my cell mate during the duration of my stay in his dungeons. Yet Azog prohibited from laying a finger on me. Orcs are incredibly proud creatures and I attacked his pride by calling him an abomination for following the orders of anyone instead of getting what he wanted. I goaded him and he did not take my offence lightly. He came into my cell and packed me and I stabbed my him in his eye with a hairpin from my braid. He was so focused in his pain that he offered me a chance to escape." _

_She had looked down after ending her tale, but had been able to glimpse the impressed and affectionate look in the brothers' eyes and that had caused her to turn grave, because even if she had wanted to she could no longer remain blind to Kili and Fili's blatant affection toward her. She had shuffled her shoulders in discomfort and then Bofur had started to praise her and a great clamour from the dwarves had been roused, as they discussed her tale and her courage and she had heard Beorn's voice state to her cousin in mirth: "Your cousin is a delight, little bunny." She had laughed indulgently at Beorn's nickname for Bilbo, perhaps the first time since her capture that she had laughed so carelessly and for the rest of the evening Fili, Kili and her had teased Bilbo for his nickname. _

Beorn and Arien had shown such kindness toward her. They had offered her to stay in his halls until Bilbo returned from reclaiming Erebor, figuring that neither Bilbo nor Laurel would have wanted to once more endanger her life by her continuing on this quest. She was uncertain. Rationally, she knew that she should not go on the quest. Especially now that she had the certainty that they would re encounter Azog and that he would wish to extract revenge upon her for her escape. The possibility terrified her. The possibility of once more being captured by Azog caused shivers of dread to race down her spine. Yet despite her anger at Thorin, despite the growing resentment and contempt and bitterness she felt toward the dwarven king, she still felt... regard and loyalty and affection and these sentiments were stronger than any hatred toward him that could grow within her.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by the sound of someone approaching her and she looked up from the blossom she was tenderly caressing to see Thorin Oakenshield moving toward her with his usual proud and majestic posture. Yet when her eyes rested upon him, he stopped a few paces between them and crossed his arms behind his back and straightened his spine. Silence enveloped them and all she could hear was the sound of Beorn's bees flying through the air and the sound of her heart pounding in her chest. For a few seconds they simply studied each other in warm silence. She took him in. Thorin looked just as aloof and callous as he had always appeared, ever since the night she had first met him. Yet when she looked into his eyes... She did not know how to interpret the emotion in his eyes. They were not the stormy, steely grey-blue that she had become so used to. They were softer, kinder. She looked away and felt anger directed at herself. Anger at the hope in her chest, anger at the sensation of happiness and joy that had packed her to have seen him. With her lips pursed and her nose scrunched in dissatisfaction, she looked back towards her rose and ignored Thorin's presence.

She heard him clear his throat, yet she did not look up and then he declared in a low voice: "I am glad to see you are well, Laurel." She nodded her head in response to his words but didn't see them as genuine and she felt her anger at him increase at what she perceived was his false sympathy. He had disregarded her in the past days, he had left her to Azog, he had abandoned her. He had no care for her well-being, as much as it pained her to admit it. She heard him emit a low, wistful sigh in response to her stubborn silence.

He stepped closer to her and only stopped when she could feel his warmth against her side and she ducked her head as she felt blood rise to her cheek and her breathing increase. She cursed herself. She still wanted him. Despite his callousness and his cruelty towards her: Damn him, she still wanted him. She heard his steady, quick breathing beside her and she tensed in anticipation, as he whispered in a soft voice that contrasted so great with the usual steel of his tone: "I don't believe I ever thanked you for all you did for me, for saving..." She caught herself from the haze of yearning that had packed her and she straightened and before he could finish what he wanted to say, she cut him off coldly: "There is no need for you to do so. I would have done what I did for any dwarf, for any man."

He stiffened in response to her words and despite not meeting his eyes she could feel his eye studying every inch of her face and searching her face for any sign that would disconfirm her story. After a few seconds of silence, he whispered: "Any dwarf?" and she could hear the disappointment that laced his words and it caused her breath to catch and she closed her eyes as she felt her heart quicken. She was tempted to look up at him for the emotion in his voice had sounded so real, so genuine. But she reminded herself of his heartlessness, reminded herself that he had left her. She refrained from looking at him and continue studying her rose.

She perceived him catching himself, composing himself and in a formal tone, the same unaffected and indifferent tone she so loathed: "I don't believe you understand, Ms. Took. I have misjudged you..." She cut him off once more, now with anger coursing through her at his renewed tact and at the thought of what he'd made her suffer through and she spat bitterly: "No, you assumed I was an and an elf I am, Master Oakenshield."

She heard him sigh with exasperation and he stated lowly, almost to himself: "Must you make matter so difficult?"

She bristled with indignation at his words and his exasperation. Her nostrils flared as she turned towards him and with fire in her eyes, she hissed: "Why would I make anything easy for you after the torment you permitted me to go through." She was blind in her rage. She was unseeing of anything, as her eyes sparked with fiery rage and it consumed her completely. All the pain she had gone through consumed her so completely that she did not see Thorin's handsome, yet weathered face contort with agonized guilt and concern and she did not hear his tortured tone of voice, as he stated: "I wish to apologize for that."

"Do not, for it shall be in vain. I shall not forgive you." She looked up at him tigerishly and then she hissed in a low, hate filled voice, pouring all the pain all the torment she had felt, he had caused into her speech: "I could have forgiven you for your prejudice and mistreatment of both me and Bilbo had I for one second thought you genuine." He interrupted her and stated through gritted teeth: "I am." She simply scoffed in mocking, cruel derision and did not allow herself to be deterred: "I might have been able to forgive you your arrogance, your conceit, your..." she rang with her words and inhaled deeply in a fruitless attempt to calm herself. "Your selfish disregard for anyone's feelings and pain but your own. I might have been able to forget that it was these characteristics that made me dislike you from the first. But I can't forgive your callousness, your heartlessness. I can't forget that not even a day had passed when I had decided that you were most unendurable man I'd ever had the displeasure of meeting."

Her eyes widened as she perceived her cruel words and for a moment she blinked her eyes in shock at her hostility and viciousness. She had not known where her words had come from, she had simply said them. Before she had stopped herself and thought about her words, she had stated them consumed by her rage and her bitterness towards him. She now regretted her malicious words, yet she was too proud to retract, too stubborn.

She started when she saw a flash of hurt cross Thorin's eyes at her words as he looked down at her incredulously, yet the sensation was so quickly gone that she thought she had only imagined it. She looked down and shook her head, renewed indignation at Thorin's indifference toward her and his ability to make her feel all but indifference toward him.

She turned around with the firm intent of departing when she heard his voice as he stated through gritted teeth: "So that is your opinion of me." She kept her back towards him as she felt him step closer to her and eliminate the distance that she had put between them. She felt his breath on the nape of her neck and felt his eyes burning into her and she stated lowly: "It is all you have given me. I am not an insipid child, Thorin, who doesn't see the reality before them and reveres false idols." She heard him exhale shakily in response to her words and she could not tell if her body had started to tremble during the confrontation, or if it was him shaking, him who was standing so close to her that she could his every being.

"I have duties, responsibilities. My people..." She tipped her head back and cried out in frustration, she turned toward him and stated heatedly: "Your people, your people. It's always about your people." She shook her head as she met his bare steel eyes and asked with vulnerability: "What about you, Thorin? What about you? Have you ever done anything for yourself? Have you ever lived for yourself? Or is all you do for your people, for your grandfather and father?" His lips parted as he looked down at her and for a long moment they simply stood studying each other. She only broke the gaze when she perceived that he would not answer her and with a humourless bitter smirk she stated: "But I forget, you despise elves. Azog probably did you a service by capturing me and ridding your company off me." She was about to turn on her heel when she felt his hand on her shoulder and his grip was just shy of painful as he lowered his head to hers and spat: "You clueless girl. You know not the torment I am... was under because of you. You know nothing."

Her nostrils flared and with narrowed eyes she hissed: "Was it the same torment you felt when you passively allowed me to be tortured by the Great Goblin? Was it the same torment you felt when you decided that you must move on and leave me to Azog's mercy?" She scoffed in derision and stated sarcastically: "Or perhaps it rivalled the obvious joy you felt at my return?" His grip tightened on her shoulders. Slowly his eyes transitioned from angered to incredulous and then to frantic and then he stated in despair and helplessness: "What did you expect me to do? I shouldn't... I can't... You know I can't." The fiery indignation she felt was extinguished by his words and her shoulders slackened in his grip. She looked up at him and her heart constricted.

For the first time she truly saw him and what he felt. She truly saw his pain and it broke her heart, because she hated it. She hated him and his enraging sense of responsibility. She couldn't help herself and let out a broken sob.

She heard him sigh tiredly, longingly and he moved closer towards her. Yet before he could any more and destroy her further, she shook his hands off her and shook her head vigorously.

"Whatever you feel won't be your dirty little secret. I won't be your dirty little secret, Thorin." She stated with absolute conviction without looking at him, lest she resign herself. She turned on her heel and departed without looking back at Thorin.

* * *

**I know what you're thinking. Two updates back to back- oh ria! I was just so excited to get this chapter out and could not bear to muster any Patience. I think that this is the chapter you have all been waiting for, Laurel and Thorin's confrontation, which is now even more epic because both characters are Aware of Feelings they werent before. The Story is going to become a Little more angsty from now on, because I like it. **

**Can I just say that personally, this is my favorite chapter up to date. I got some pride and prejudice in it (hope you guys caught that) and then I was just screaming you go Girl to laurel when she was like i won't be your dirty secret. Then I wanted to cuddle thorin before slapping him behind the head and telling him to get over himself. **

**Since this chapter is what so many of you were looking Forward too, I expect many Reviews. Just kidding (not really) I would appreciate it if you guys would leave me a few lines though, I definitely worked very hard on the chapter. **

**QOTW: What did you guys think of Thorin and Laurel's confrontation? **


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